The Minstrel Boy
by Kristen999
Summary: The minstrel boy to the war has gone In the ranks of death you will find him. Fallout from a centuries old war across the ocean causes serious repercussions for the team. Nickcentric with team. Set S5. Conclusion up
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Minstrel Boy

Authors: Kristen999 and everybetty (Beth)

Category: Action/Adv/Angst and good old-fashioned Whump.

Spoilers: Set early Season Five, spoilers in particular for "Mea Culpa"

Disclaimer: All rights belong to CBS and their fine writers. Please don't sue it's just for fun.

Summary: _The minstrel boy to the war has gone, in the ranks of death you will find him. _Fallout from a centuries old war across the ocean causes significant repercussions for the team. Nickcentric Team fic.

Notes : This is a co-authored piece by everybetty (Beth) and Kristen999. Each chapter was written by both authors to give a seamless feel and flow to the story. Any comments should be directed to both writers.

Warnings: This story contains coarse language as well as violent situations. And much whump. Not for the faint of heart.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Thomas Moore (1779-1852)  
Tune: "The Moreen" Ancient Irish Air

_The minstrel boy to the war is gone,  
In the ranks of death you will find him;  
His father's sword he hath girded on,  
And his wild harp slung behind him; _

_"Land of Song!" cried the warrior bard,  
"Tho' all the world betrays thee,  
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,  
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"_

_The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's steel  
Could not bring that proud soul under;  
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,  
For he tore its chords asunder;_

_And said "No chains shall sully thee,  
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!  
Thy songs were made for the pure and free  
They shall never sound in slavery!"_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He made the fourth circuit around the block, going up two further, even scanning the adjacent lots near the fancy new Wolfgang Puck restaurant under construction. This area was a few miles west of the ever-growing strip. That's Vegas: always expanding, as many tourist spots as there are particles of sand. If a new section for profit-making opportunities was available, then brick, mortar and neon were erected to cash in on the dollars flowing in. Oddly enough, there wasn't much flashing florescence around this area; still low key, development inching closer and closer to the suburban areas hanging on to the less congested sprawl.

Can't escape Vegas when it has its sights set on you. Nick peered through the windshield thinking there had to be parking somewhere, wasn't like the place was offering all you could eat T-bone specials. Surprisingly enough the blackjack tables and flesh pits hadn't made their way out here yet. Just an area booming with art houses, antique shops, the aforementioned up and coming famous eating establishment and the address of his current objective.

"Finally," Nick complained out loud when a Honda shot out of a space, his larger SUV able to barely squeeze into the tight fit. Sighing at his watch, he hopped out, grabbed his kit and began walking briskly to his scene.

He was solo tonight, and had been on several occasions the past few weeks unless _very_ warranted. Double homicide with no partner was a bit ridiculous. Ever since Ecklie had been named the new Assistant Lab Director the hammer had fallen and the new reign began. Stricter protocol, more paper work, and a beady eye on every minute on the clock. The sound of _ka_-_ching_ echoed like an invisible reminder with every ordered supply and test.

The Nazi-like control surrounding even a single paper clip smelled of yearly budget bonus, though no one mentioned a word out loud. Nick wiggled his wrist, the metallic kit bumping against his knee more than he intended. As he approached the building of his quest his ears perked up at the noise that shouldn't be there.

Singing. No… _chanting_?

Nick's feet slowed as he stared at a quaint looking building, bustling with excitement, the camaraderie boiling out into the streets. All the signs of a rip-roaring party and not the site of a murder. A wooden sign hung over the red front doors, depicted on it a knight on a white stallion slaying a dragon. The words "The George" appeared in old-fashioned lettering below the heroic acts of the painting.

His eyebrows arched as he watched a drunkard spill out the front doors and stumble near his feet. He hopped out of the way in time, just before the guy heaved all over his shoes. He wet his bottom lip as he stood trying to figure out if he had the wrong address. Yep, old looking pub in the middle of town. Dark, large bay windows, tinted so you couldn't peer through them, chalk sign outside with tonight's special and beers on tap, brown stucco walls complete with real straw overhangs along the roof.

" 'Scuse me." The man puking his guts out earlier swayed, miraculously staying on his feet before stumbling back inside, singing an awful tune off key as he re-entered the joint.

Nick didn't know what to make of the guy; a colorful flag wrapped around his shoulders, face painted in red and black stripes. The CSI began to question the directions, not comprehending his whereabouts. Certainly a crime hadn't taken place here... speaking of, since when did the city of Sin make way for English pubs in the middle of what was going to be the next beacon for the ever expanding big lights of the city?

"Stokes."

His whipped his head up at the door banging open when Detective Vartann stepped through, verifying that he did indeed have the right place. His furrowed brow was enough for the cop to pick up on his puzzlement.

"You've got the right place," Vartann answered for him before he had a chance to voice his confused query.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "All right. Care to clue me in on what's goin' on in there?" Nick asked as he nodded in the direction of the pub.

The detective seemed a bit perturbed and sighed loudly. As he drew closer Nick noted the cop's dark suit stunk of cigarettes and stale beer. "A scuffle took place between fans of two rival teams."

Nick peered through the doors, the hooting and hollering assaulting his ears. "In there?"

Vartann bit his lip. "Yeah, the vics got into a physical altercation; once fists went flying they were shoved to a corner out of the way by the locals who didn't want the commotion to interrupt the game."

Nick was still confused but was silenced by an annoyed hand that waved off his questions. "Once the two _gentlemen_ were out of the way, the fight went on. One pulled out a knife, the other guy a newly purchased gun, ending with them killing each other."

The criminalist pursed his lips, then let out a slight laugh. "Um, this place looks jumpin', boss. How come it's not cleared yet?"

Clearly struggling with the situation Vartann mumbled under his breath. "Been waiting for backup for a while now. Traffic's snarled up past Fremont, and that quadruple in Henderson is tying everyone else up. Not to mention that damn convention in town eating up all our extra resources and manpower."

Nick rifled through his pockets for a pack of gum, pulling out a piece and slipping it out of the tinfoil. " 'Kay, no one else on the scene, but this pub's poppin' in there, man." Nick began chewing in earnest, eyes darting back over. "They givin' away pots of gold to be partying around two dead bodies?"

Vartann chuckled. "Don't say something like that in there. It's a British pub, and it's Liverpool vs. Manchester United. Wouldn't matter if the Pope was conducting mass right outside, these guys won't leave 'til the last goal is scored."

The Texan rubbed at his near bald buzz-cut, "Soccer, huh?"

"Football," the other man corrected. Then Vartann shrugged. "It's going to be a huge headache getting statements and sending everyone home."

Nick chewed thoughtfully. "Didn't know we had any British ex-pats around here."

"We don't really, scattered just like any nationality. The news made a big deal about this place opening. Lots of press about them moving every brick over from England. Owned by a rich guy, and it's pulling people from all over the city for the semi-finals."

The CSI ducked his head, still not following why this game was such a big deal. The detective patted Nick on the back. "Huge rivalry that puts most things here in the States to shame. This is bigger than baseball, the NFL, and hockey combined. It's about honor and tradition dating back hundreds of years."

"Sound like a fan," Nick laughed.

"Big sports guy like yourself, I'm surprised you don't watch it. Though I guess back in Dallas it was about rodeos and pigskin."

Nick rolled his eyes. "The night's young and you're already jabbin' at me."

The criminalist flexed his neck then exhaled, clapping his hands together to pump himself up, expecting a fairly decent confrontation. "Let's go."

Vartann smiled. "You're all buff and tough now. Nothing like a tavern full of frenzied fans to start off your night."

Nick smiled; a guy hits the gym more often than most and everyone becomes a commentator. He shook his head, patting the other man on the back as they went in.

It was an amusing contradiction once inside The George as both men entered the large room. They passed into another century, floorboards creaking under their weight as they entered a red-carpeted area. Yet the _merry olde England _aesthetics of the tavern were negated by the modern additions up front. A huge crowd clamored at the bar and scattered groups of men shouted at massive TV screens almost hidden by their collective bodies. Nick and Vartann navigated the crowd in an attempt to get to the owner who kept himself separate from the folly near a large stone fireplace.

Nick set his kit down gently, subconsciously worried about scratching the hardwood floor. He glanced at the bric-a-brac that adorned the wall; cast iron antique pots and pans, a few faded oil paintings of the English countryside, and a massive tattered Union Jack flag. He surveyed the room, cataloging the makeup of the crowd: a mix of businessmen and crazed-looking fans.

Clumps of people wore nothing but red from head to toe holding signs that read, 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. Thick accents screamed madly about another yellow card. Several guys whose faces were obscured by more red paint, but with black stripes, clanked large pints of ale together at the others' distress.

A man in his forties with thin dark hair and tiny spectacles waved them closer over the roar of the various celebrations and an array of colorful cursing.

"This is Robert Alfred, owner of the George," Vartann, introduced, just as the place nearly rumbled with feet pounding the floorboards with cheers.

"Call me Alfie, mate. Everyone does."

Nick introduced himself, getting the pleasantries aside. "You see what happened?" His voice strained over the noise.

"Sorry. Been too busy trying to make sure I don't run out of spirits, and keeping everyone happy." The man wiped at his sweat-covered brow and then over his dirtied apron.

"Air conditioner not working?" Nick asked, the heat of almost a hundred bodies stifling in the small building. Alfred shook his head with a shrug. "Been down all night."

Nick turned to the detective. "Where are the DBs?"

Vartann and Alfred turned towards a small room off to the side, the low lighting hiding it from the casual eye. Nick followed their gaze and then calculated the distance away from the melee of fans, waves of people heading to the bar, other tense faces glued to the big screens.

"And no one's concerned about a gun going off? Two men getting into a violent fight?" Nick questioned the owner.

The older gentleman scoffed. "Got nothing but fisticuffs and barney going on every time a foul's called on one team or another. Doesn't take much with as much ale and gin as these buggers have downed." The smaller man shrugged. "It sorts itself out. Someone buys another round or the argument dies down until the next call."

"And our two guys. Who tossed them into the other room to calm down?" the criminalist asked.

"Already told the detective, it was Lenny and Gabe. They're staying at the end of the bar, until you speak to them," the pub man answered, pointing to two guys who looked like your typical stockbroker or salesman with loosened ties and rolled up shirtsleeves.

"Both regulars," Alfred said, nodding at the men, a cloud of smoke from their cigarettes hovering over their heads.

Vartann picked up his ringing cell phone while Nick mentally counted nearly seventy people cramped inside the quaint building. Good thing it seemed that the only suspects involved were dead; trying to corral this many people to print and speak to would have been a nightmare and just trying to get them to leave was looking to be a freaking headache.

The detective hung up his phone. "We got a couple squad cars outside to help clear everyone out of here."

The owner smiled amusedly at the news. "You've got to be kidding, right? You chaps are going to send all these rowdy drunkards into the streets? In the middle of the game? Are you mad or just looking for barney?" Alfred asked.

"Who's Barney?" Nick asked the pub owner.

"Trouble, lad. Trouble," the man answered wearily.

Nick shook his head at the nonsensical-seeming Cockney slang but smiled as he headed towards Lenny and Gabe.

Vartann beat him to the duo, making the necessary introductions, both men nodding cordially.

The closest to them, a middle-aged guy whose neatly trimmed blonde hair and stocky build made him look more like one of those European Strongest Man champions, shook Nick's hand with an iron grip. "I'm Lenny Richardson, work over at Dumont Brokers."

His companion fit the definition of nondescript; average build, brown eyes, and dark hair. He raised his pint at the pair. "Gabe Dowd, own my own business in town. You here to find out about those two wankers?"

Nick kept a neutral expression, while Vartann took out his notepad and began the conversation. "When did you first notice the two?"

The human tank snorted, "We didn't pay them any mind until the drunk one began dancing around like an idiot after the first twenty minutes. He was here when we got our first Boddingtons."

Vartann scribbled in his notebook. "He was already intoxicated when you got here?"

"Yeah," the large fellow answered, while keeping his eyes towards the game. "You could tell he was some stupid bloke visiting. He came alone, acting a fool, like he was a regular, when everyone knew he was some daft tourist."

"He was from Vegas?" Nick inquired.

"No, mate, he was from out of the country. You know, a tourist." The man smiled knowing that the CSI had neglected to realize that he could be a naturalized U.S citizen. "Anyhow, with that accent, man was definitely from Liverpool, all lairy about the first goal." The other man answered this time, his accent much thicker.

Nick leaned closer, caught off guard by the oddness of the man's pronunciation. His face scrunched up, but the witness kept talking.

"That twonk wouldn't keep his trap shut; he egged on the wrong chaps. Bugger made a real nuisance of himself, even joked that the IFA could outscore United, cocky bastard."

Nick opened his mouth to speak but the detective saved him any embarrassment. "Compared them to the North Irish league, huh? Bet that group didn't take it too well."

The criminalist smiled, knowing he was saved a little face, and tossed Vartann a grateful glance.

Lenny, the large guy, grunted, taking a drag from his smoke. "Set them off. This one guy blew up, got right in the idiot's face; caused this huge scene. We went over there, tried to calm them both down."

The place suddenly erupted in whistles and the bar rocked with the vibrations of near on a hundred men jumping up and down.

"You see that, Gabe? Blew the damn save!" The large man growled amidst the varied response. The bar soon flooded with more people ordering drinks.

The smaller man cringed. "Damn!" He downed his remaining pint before ordering a shot, then turned back to his new acquaintances. "Anyhow, we got the roughhousing to calm down. Ordered another round, told them to keep to their corners. Worked for a few minutes, before that tourist began running his mouth off again."

Nick squinted, even if it was his ears that had to remain sharp during the increased volume of the pub after the score change. The placed hummed with renewed energy and intensity.

"So, what happened next?" he yelled over the rising thrum of excited patrons.

"Who knows? I mean, the Mancunian lad from the other table cold-cocked the guy, then all hell broke loose. The guy who started everything held his own for a bit, but was about to waste a good bottle on the lad's head. That's when we tossed the buggers into the other room and told them to keep shtoom," Gabe replied, then, seeing the look the Texan had given him amended it to, "keep their traps shut." He turned to look around for the barkeep for another drink.

"So you took it upon yourselves to keep them in line? Why not just throw them to the streets?" the dark haired detective asked.

"We're here all the time, we want to help Alfie keep The George respectable," Lenny replied as his buddy nodded, grabbing an ale and gulping it down. The larger man stood to his full height, his shirt tight against his tree trunk of a torso. "Someone's got to keep the peace, and no way we're going to allow those fools to kill someone on the road. In the side room they could punch each other silly, or sober up."

Nick wasn't about to knock on a guy defending his local watering hole. "Okay. When'd you notice things go from bad to worse?"

The smaller guy snickered and the CSI shared a glance with Vartann; someone really needed to slow his consumption down. The man wiped the foam from his lip with his sleeve. "Soon as we heard the Scouser screaming bloody murder. By the time Lenny and I ran over, the tourist was bleeding like a stuck pig with a freaking pistol in his hands."

"The Brit had a weapon?" Vartann clarified.

"Yeah, charlie screwed around, like he didn't know how to pull the trigger," the more intoxicated man snorted.

"Charlie?" Nick asked, trying to clarify.

"The fool, mate. Stupid tourist guy," the larger man explained. "Though as Gabe said, he had no clue how to fire a gun. Other lad had a knife which it's safe to say had been used before. The tourist was still trying to figure out how to use his new toy. Gave enough time to let the knife-wielding bugger have another go at him and during the row the gun went off. By the time we got there, they were both goners."

Both men commiserated about the events as if they were just going over the rounds of a boxing game gone violent. "Alfie knew that bloke, said he was bad news, short fuse," Gabe rattled off as he searched for the barkeep.

Nick noticed his need, and waved the pub guy away despite the evil glare he got from the intoxicated man.

"Hey, I wanted another pint," Gabe complained, slightly slurring his speech.

"I think you've had quite enough. In fact, you might need to stick around, but we're going to have to clear all of you guys out while we begin our investigation," Nick tried to explain reasonably.

"Wha-?" Lenny growled as he lit another cigarette.

Vartann tried to rein the man in. "You mentioned that the owner knew who the short tempered guy was?"

The bulky man cut short his tirade, while Nick tried to placate his buddy about being cut off. "Alls I know was when we calmed them down the first time, Alfie complained about having to deal with him causing trouble during games before. Violent drunkard."

The detective looked to Nick and the two knew it was time to begin moving everyone out. The CSI waved over the owner and explained the need to shut the TVs off and make the announcement. The well-mannered man tensed, knowing he was about to infuriate his customers, but he understood the need.

He pushed the buttons on a remote and the volume of the glowing tubes grew silent invoking shouted obscenities and a slew of high-pitched whistling. It was obvious the pub man was well respected because the crowd actually fell to a low muttering and allowed him to speak. The owner stood behind the bar, every eye in the place glaring at him.

Nick and the detective knew it was better that the older man address the horde before they stepped in and gave out instructions. The two men bookended the smaller guy as he gave the crowd the news.

Despite apologies and the need for law enforcement to take over the football fans erupted into a sea of discontent, the ripples of malice directed at the two LVPD men.

Vartann knew it was time to act quickly. "Listen up! We need everyone to exit in an orderly fashion, and follow the police officers outside!"

Nick stared down several evil glares, ignoring a few choice obscenities, but Lenny and Gabe soon joined the fray in trying to escort people out. The group of five each took flanking positions around the crowd ushering them towards the doors, a few disgruntled bartenders helping out, even if it was going to hurt them in the wallet later on.

"Thank you. This way," Nick said, trying to keep things peaceful. He even ignored a few rough bumps by a large set of shoulders belonging to a hulking brute he was walking next to. The criminalist eyed him coolly and the other guy backed down at the intense gaze.

Painted bodies and flag bearers meandered and took their sweet time. Vartann and the criminalist stood at the door like movie ushers, the Texan chewing intensely on his gum. A beer bellied guy with a large colorful hat and tattoos on his arms got into the CSI's face. "We don't fuck with your pastime," he hissed.

Nick could look menacing when needed, his closely shaved head and muscular build a physical manifestation of the business he meant. "If I were back home and two guys were dead at the Cowboys' stadium, I'd do just the same. My job."

The fan snarled while another guy tried to shove him forward. "Sorry, mate. Know you've got your duty," the friend apologized.

Nick nodded, as he and Vartann surveyed the room to see a group of fans switching on the TVs, picking up knocked over stools to plant themselves on. The detective sighed audibly. "Whatcha think?"

Nick estimated that twenty or so customers would undoubtedly spell trouble with their hold out. He peered outside to see the few officers on the scene trying to deal with the upset huddled mass that had not dispersed once they exited.

"I don't know. We could use our mean voices," he joked.

Vartann rolled his eyes. "Let's get who we got on their way home and we'll come back in with some backup if need be."

Nick placed his hands on his hips irritably as the still good-sized hold out of fans stared back at him in challenge. "I'll stand here, make sure the back room stays clear. Still too many inside that could contaminate the scene if they get bored and start wandering."

The detective hesitated but Nick shook his head. "They're more interested in the game than giving me any hassles."

Fans from both teams took respective corners, and began to shout at the TVs as the game went on, and they ignored the orders to leave. Vartann was about to argue when he heard the rowdy crowd still milling around begin to get into it with the too few officers trying to control them. "Jesus," he muttered as he headed out to see what the new fuss was about.

Putting on the grimmest, sternest face he could muster Nick sauntered over to the bar and picked up the remote, stabbing the power button, plunging the TVs back into darkness, then waited for the inevitable protest.

"Bloody hell, mate! What the fuck's yer problem?" one snaggletoothed brute shouted from where he was weaving on his stool.

"Well, I know we speak a different language, _mate_, but I'm pretty sure 'Get the hell out' is the same on both sides of the world," Nick answered with a steely smile. _So much for international diplomacy._

"Who's this then? Some bloody copper?" Mr. Dental Hygiene 2005 asked his equally smile-challenged buddy.

"Naw, mate. He's a _forensics_ guy, like they show on Court TV! You know, fingerprints and all that Sherlock Holmes shit. Lookit his kit, Tommy! Hey, crime guy! You gonna take our fingerprints, yeah?"

Nick took in a deep breath and held it, counting to ten in time with the pulse of the now throbbing vein in his forehead.

"Hi, Tommy, is it?" he asked Snaggletooth #1. "And you are?" he inquired of the Forensics Files fan.

"Den. Dennis, actually. You really like them guys on the telly?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am, and I need to go run my tests on the two decedents back there," he said, hooking a thumb towards the side room. "And you know that I need to get to the evidence fast, right? Fingerprints fade, DNA denatures, trace gets lost."

The Court TV guy was nodding knowingly as if he completely understood everything Nick was saying, his head bobbing in an almost vertical up and down manner, the weight of his skull sometimes pulling it off center. Tommy just looked mystified.

"C'mon, Tommy. Let's let Crime Guy do his thing, yeah? C'mon. I need to take a leak and I know just the bloke's car I'm gonna do it on."

The two leaned against each other and staggered out the doors to disappear into the still seething mass of people outside.

Two down, over a dozen more to go, and Nick doubted he could count on any more Court TV fans in the crowd.

Fifteen minutes later he'd managed to get all but five out, using a combination of his wide Texas grin, his strong stern brow, and a few well-placed Vulcan death grip-like squeezes to some recalcitrant shoulders. The last five were engrossed in a deep conversation/argument concerning some guy named Wark, a bunch of 'dirty Mancs', and Mellor vs. Gayle. Complete gibberish to his ears.

Before attempting to roust the hangers-on Nick needed some fresh air. Recharge his batteries and catch some non-tobacco smoke choked oxygen.

He wandered over to the front door to see that Vartann and the uniforms had done an admirable job of clearing the mob. About a dozen red-clothed fans still hung about, most sitting on the hoods of cars, smoking and continuing discussions from inside. They'd all brought their drinks out with them, but with Vegas' _what the fuck _attitude towards open containers, there wasn't much to be done about it.

He stepped out onto the cement pad in front of the doors to inhale the warm, humid night air. The parking lot was still jammed, a good sign, as that meant most of the drunks they'd sent out into the night were wandering about on foot and not mowing down pedestrians. He scratched his head as he thought where they might have wandered off _to_. Nearest business was a craft shop next door, not much of interest there to a drunken soccer fan.

A man ran from around the corner of the building, chest heaving as he gasped for air. Nick only got a brief look at him as he was hunched over and the lighting didn't extend out that far from the entrance. Thick head of blonde curls on a medium framed man wearing jeans and a navy jacket. The man raised his head and looked Nick straight in the eye for a split second, the expression on his face pinning Nick where he stood.

"Bomb! There's a bomb in the pub!"

Whereas Nick may have under different circumstances figured the man for one of the rowdy drunk crowd, maybe trying to rile things up, the look on the man's face cleared every speck of doubt immediately.

Before Nick could utter a word to him, or shout for Vartann, the man turned and fled back into the night.

Time slowed down and sped up all at the same time as Nick screamed for Vartann, furious arm gestures waving gaping mouthed football fans back away from the building, then he turned and ran into the pub to get the five that had stayed behind.

His hands grabbed the nearest two arms, fingers digging painfully into their biceps, dragging the bewildered men with him as he locked eyes with the soberest looking one in the bunch.

"There is a bomb in the building. Everyone leaves NOW!"

They couldn't have been too far gone intoxication-wise because he soon found the arms he was holding ripped from his fingers as the men charged headlong for the doors. Even if they had only picked one word out of his statement, the word they'd gotten was "bomb".

They exited the doors and made it to the parking lot, Nick bringing up the rear, when one of the five, a scrawny freckle-faced kid, couldn't have been more than twenty _wonder if they carded him at the door?_ suddenly turned, shouting about his lucky scarf, and darted back towards the pub.

Nick turned at the waist as the kid ran past him, arm outstretched, his fingers brushing the kid's sleeve but never catching.

He pivoted and made it two steps towards the front of the club, watching as the red doors swung shut behind the kid.

He never made the next step.

The building exploded.

(TBC…)


	2. Chapter 2

"All I can say, Gil, is that you need to pick your battles. You fight tooth and nail against every one of these changes, and half the time I wonder if you even have a reason other than Ecklie ordered it."

Grissom attempted to stare her down with his customary raised eyebrow but Catherine knew she was right.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Gil, but I have to say, some of the changes Ecklie's mandating are good ideas. And if they save the lab some money, and some of that money trickles down to us, all the better, I say!"

"Catherine, do you really expect these budgetary clampdowns will ever do more than jeopardize investigations, make us work longer hours with shorter manpower, and maybe add up to a few more dollars in Conrad's wallet?"

"You know what, Gil? If toeing the line means I have a better shot at making supervisor, then that's what I'll do. I need this promotion; no, I deserve it. I have another mouth to feed and put braces on, so yeah, I would like to see a few extra dollars in my paycheck."

Grissom knew he could never win against the _I'm a mom_ offensive Catherine seemed to launch during every argument, but it was the fact that she did have someone to go home to that made him want to get through to her.

"Cath," he said, voice softening a bit, "what it is going to come down to is that for every extra dollar sign you hope to see in your check, you'll be working those extra hours, away from Lindsey, without overtime, just to get the work done. We cannot hope to maintain any integrity in this lab if Conrad doesn't stop nickel and diming us on every supply, every test, every man hour." He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

"Speaking of … I have a date with the Devil in five. Who do we have out tonight?"

Catherine puffed at a loose piece of hair as she mentally ran down her list. "Warrick's at a B&E in Seven Hills, Sara's in Henderson at a four bagger MVA. Sofia was scrubbing in and joining her. Nick's out at a double over on the west side. And Greg's waiting to have his hand held. You need to take him with you on your next run. And I am outa here once you finish up with Conrad. I'm working Swing this week and next."

"You liking Swing?" Grissom asked with a sad smile.

"Not particularly. Wanted days, you know that. But this week I woke up in time to at least see Linds off to school, and I even managed to eat breakfast with her. We make do, right, Gil?" She patted his bearded cheek with a soft smile and sauntered out of his office.

The entomologist consulted his watch once more then grinned to himself as he realized he had time to refill his coffee and only be a few minutes late for his meeting. And he could live with being fashionably late to seeing Conrad Ecklie.

* * *

"Gil, I think you're missing the 'big picture' here", Conrad said, aiding his point by making the air quotes himself with four crooked fingers. "These budgetary constraints will help show the powers that be that we are willing to work 'that much harder' (more air quotes for emphasis) to save money. Money that is criminally tight right now, I might add."

"No, Conrad, what is going to happen with the 'powers that be' (emphasized with his own VERY sarcastic air quotes, Conrad thought) is that come the next time they write up the budget, they'll say to themselves, 'well, they managed to work on these few dollars last year, let's see what we can trim away THIS year.'"

"They wouldn't do that. Now you're seeing conspiracies for Pete's sake. Never took you as a paranoid, Gil."

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, Conrad. I don't know how many ways I can say this, but I won't stop saying it until something gives. We cannot continue to operate to the level of excellence needed-- no, _demanded_, without money for tests, for equipment, and payroll. It's all well and good to put in a few hours off the clock for the good of a case, but my people are burning themselves out faster than cheap tea candles, and the work will suffer. THEY will suffer."

Conrad tried but failed to stop his eyes from rolling in their sockets. "Now you're just being overly dramatic, Gil. You have a young, healthy staff, willing to roll up their shirtsleeves and dig in for the cause. Hell, I think Sidle's got a roll-away cot in the break room, and Stokes and Brown wrestle over dibs on the couch. Maybe you've just gotten a bit too…" He wanted the dig, _yearned _for the dig, but knew he ultimately couldn't piss Grissom off too badly. "Maybe you just need to let them take on more of the load, is all I'm saying. I've heard no complaints from any of them."

It was true…to a point. He had heard grumblings in the break room, and once he had passed the trace lab to hear Brown say something about hearing the pennies in "his" hand screaming from being squeezed too tightly, but of course, Conrad couldn't be sure that He was the "his" they were talking about. Even though it was right after he had posted the notice about the annual CSI picnic going Pot Luck this year instead of being catered by Louie's like it had in the past. No room in the budget for baked ziti and roast beef when the employees were perfectly capable of throwing together some macaroni salad and Swedish meatballs. He gave a small involuntary shiver at the realization that a) Sidle might cook, and b) she'd probably bring something made of eggplant.

He saw the bug man's hands jabbing at the air and realized he had missed the last thing Grissom had said, but there was little chance it was anything but the same protestations he'd been making since Conrad had taken over as Assistant Director.

He took in a draw of air, prepping to joust once more with the angry entomologist, when the phone rang.

Grissom was used to being the one in the comfy chair, behind the desk, not the one in the flimsy aluminum framed thing in front of the desk.

He could tell that Ecklie had zoned out on him and practically stabbed the air with his hands in an attempt to bring the asst. director's attention back and hopefully, drive his point home.

He opened his mouth to recite some of the facts he'd been gathering, some of his arguments he'd honed down to black and white bullet points that the bureaucrat might better be able to grasp when the phone rang.

* * *

Stymied before he'd gotten a word out, Grissom attempted to sit in his uncomfortable chair and wait for the administrator to finish with the interruption. He didn't even bother feigning his lack of curiosity as to the caller or the reason for the call. Instead, he reviewed his statistics in his head, prioritizing them, in case Ecklie actually absorbed and agreed with any of them, he had to make them count. Give up on asking for the 2005 software for the Cyber-Noze. Make sure they got the access to the new video analysis equipment for Archie. Give up the free coffee, pony up the five bucks a month. Make sure he loosens up on the overtime pay restrictions.

The words "Bomb Squad" made his ears prick up. He sat straighter in the damnable chair, leaning over the desk , now not bothering to hide his obvious interest in the call.

"Casualties?"

The director never even batted an eye as the word left his mouth and entered the receiver.

"Uh huh. And police presence? Uh huh. What was the nature of the original scene?" Long pause. "Had the bodies been recovered prior to the blast?" Pause. "Why not?" An insufferably long pause.

Grissom opened his mouth to ask a question, quickly silenced by a slim white finger slicing through the air and standing at attention in front of his face.

"I see. Any trace at least recovered prior? Anything at all?" A pause the director sighed though. "Yeah, alright. I'll call the sheriff. Keep a lid on things, not a word to the press or heads will roll." Eyes finally rose to meet Grissom's narrowed ones. "Grissom's here. I'll tell him. And yes, I'm coming down. I'll be there in…" He shot his wrist free from his cuff and glanced at his Rolex. "I'll be there on the hour. Just do your best to contain things. Right."

The phone was barely back in the cradle as Grissom finally burst.

"What the hell was that all about, Conrad ?"

The director stood, swiping his hands down his slacks to free the fabric of wrinkles, then stepped from behind his desk as if to leave. Grissom saw the man hesitate, then Ecklie dropped one ass cheek onto the desk and adopted a more human appearance.

"There was an explosion at the site of a previous double homicide. The report I got was multiple casualties, deaths unknown. The original scene is compromised irrevocably, my understanding being that the scene was still being cleared before the CSI on site could begin."

"And who is the CSI on site?" Grissom bit out.

"They didn't say, Gil. Check the address against your log. Plainclothes officer at the scene was Alex Vartann. Bomb squad is still there assessing the situation. You're welcome to go down there with me, and maybe grab Cath--?"

Grissom was already out of his seat and through the door.

* * *

"How many times do I gotta say this? You need to move away from the doors." A dozen pairs of bleary eyes stared menacingly at him.

"Dobransky! Matthews! Get over here!"

Two beefy uniforms walked over to join Alex and his 'friends'; the first, an older man in his fifties, build like a linebacker gone a bit soft, and his younger partner, more of the LL Cool J school of physical fitness, all bulging biceps and cut abs under his tight polyester uniform top.

"You need a hand, detective?" Matthews asked.

"Yeah," Alex sighed tiredly. "Help me clear these mutts away would ya?"

"Happily, sir," Matthews replied with an evil grin. With his strong grip around two arms and his wide smile, single gold tooth glinting in the parking lot light, Matthews managed to clear a few men. Dobransky didn't bother with the grip or the grin, just a scowl and his hand brandishing his department-issued baton.

Alex turned on his heel to assess the status of those remaining. A clump of men still hovered near the doors off to one side.

He snapped his fingers several times at a third nearby uniform, knowing it was rude but he couldn't remember the rookie's name. The uniform turned slowly, his face reading "I know you're not snapping at _me_" and Alex caught the man's name tag. "Turner!"

"It's Taylor, sir," the rookie grunted as he turned fully, allowing the rest of the nametag to show. "What you need?"

"I need you to clear that group away from the doors. Please. Taylor," he amended himself. "And can you find out where CSI Stokes is? You know what he looks like?"

"GI Joe in a CSI vest? Yeah, I know him. He's still inside the building last I saw."

Alex sighed, torn between dealing with the rabble out here and helping Nick with his bunch of rowdies.

"Stokes can handle himself just fine, sir," the rookie said, apparently reading Alex's mind. "Seen the dude playin' hoops."

"Yeah," Alex agreed. "Go see what you can do with those bozos," he said, waving his hand at the group of loiterers.

Taylor sauntered over to deal with his group, Alex immediately finding his attention taken by two idiots who had started an impromptu shoving match in the parking lot. Dobransky jogged over to help him pull the two apart with threats of arrest for A & B hanging over their drunken heads.

The older uniform was sewing up the situation and Alex turned back towards the building to see Nick emerging through the front doors of the pub, shooing out another few men. That left about a half dozen still left in the building.

Moments later he heard his name being yelled and he looked over his shoulder to see the back of a blonde haired man darting around the corner of the building back into the darkened alleyway that separated the pub from the craft store. Nick screamed something about _a bomb_? and began waving his arms furiously, his message clear. _Get back. Run. _

Message received, loud and clear, only Nick ignored his own instructions and ran back into the pub.

Alex began bellowing out orders to the uniforms, the drunks slow to understand and still fighting them as they were summarily corralled and bodily shoved away from the building.

He kept one eye on crowd control and the other on the front doors. _Where the fuck is Stokes?_

He understood when a minute later the doors opened and five men spilled out into the parking lot, running as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at their ankles. Nick was right behind them, and Alex began to breathe a sigh of relief when a kid at the back of the pack suddenly spun around and ran back into the building.

He watched as Nick turned back towards the pub just as the bomb went off.

The device must have been at the back of the building. The whole rear of the pub expanded in a massive orange fireball, the roof swelling and cracking like a giant Jiffy Pop, the front doors thrown free from their hinges and every one of the windows blowing out simultaneously.

Alex felt the scorching blast hit him full on and he staggered backwards, landing on his ass as bits of ash and debris floated on the superheated air currents.

Nick was thrown ten feet at least, landing on his left side and skidding another five feet on the asphalt. Debris settled softly on his unmoving body. There was no sign of the kid.

The rookie, Taylor, was down as well, his body draped over top of the men he'd been charged with.

Rising slowly, painfully to his feet, Alex stood stunned, staring at the flames now licking out of the glass freed windows. His feet seemed glued to the blacktop as he wavered for a moment, unsure what to do next.

Two bodies rushed past him, Dobransky and Matthews, headed for Taylor and the bar patrons. Alex pulled himself together and ran over to drop down at Nick's side, fingers falling to Nick's neck, then pulling back quickly with the fear of moving him. Instead he picked up Nick's right hand and dug his fingers into the wrist. He found a pulse and closed his eyes with relief. He turned to see Dobransky shaking his head sadly. Alex could see the large piece of wooden building shrapnel that protruded from Taylor's back.

He felt the wrist between his fingers start to pull away as Nick came partway around. As he rolled onto his back Alex gave him a quick once over, the only obvious injury the road rash from skidding along the asphalt. The flesh had been scoured from Nick's left arm from where his rolled sleeve ended down to his hand. The left side of his head, chin to ear was an abraded mess, his flesh left looking like so much uncooked hamburger, and he had a laceration on his left temple.

His eyes were partially open and he stared at the night sky dazedly. Alex put a restraining hand on his shoulder, still concerned about spinal injury and not wanting Nick to move about too much. The CSI barely seemed to notice Alex was there, still blinking, then pulling his arm to his chest.

He tried to hold Nick's arm but the injured man surprised him with the strength left in him as he pulled the arm free and held it once more to his chest, his elbow digging into his side.

"Nick, try not to move. Medics are on their way."

"Can't …breathe. Hurts…" And he kept digging his arm into his side.

What Alex thought was Nick cradling a broken arm he quickly realized was the man trying to brace his ribs.

He darted a quick look at Dobransky, noting him on his radio, his silent question answered by a thumbs up from the older cop and a shout of 'they're fifteen minutes out.'

Alex unzipped Nick's vest and tried unbuttoning his shirt but Nick's arm was clamped too tightly to his side.

"Nick, you gotta let me take a look. Just a second. Relax, man, we'll get you taken care of."

But Nick couldn't/wouldn't relax and his face screwed up as tightly as his hold on his chest, mouth gaping wide as he gasped for breath.

Alex finally had to hail Matthews over and ask him to pin Nick's arm down so he could open his shirt all the way. The cop looked wide-eyedly at him but nodded quickly and eased Nick's arm free as gently as he could. The second his arm was removed Nick began groaning in earnest, puffing out the same mantra of _can't breathe, hurts,_ laced with a few expletives.

Alex quickly pulled the rest of the material away, dreading finding an open wound in the CSI's chest. Nothing obvious jumped out at him, but as he watched Nick's chest fight to rise and fall with each agony-filled breath he saw something that made his skin crawl. Every time Nick exhaled, the left section of ribs bowed out, and then sunk deeply when he inhaled, exactly the opposite of a normal breathing pattern.

"Fuck," Alex whispered to himself but Matthews caught the obscenity. It took him a minute to see what had freaked the detective out and he loosened his grip on Nick's arm as he stared. Nick's arm immediately clamped back into place at his side and he began to try to roll himself fetal.

Alex grabbed his phone and called 911, waiting the three heartbeats until an operator picked up. He spat out his badge info and _yes, he knew a bus was on the way, but he needed help now._

The 911 operator, to her credit, ignored the snappish tone and asked for a run down of the situation. Alex brought her up to speed, describing Nick's injury as best as he could, hard to explain how the man was just not breathing 'right'.

"Did the victim experience trauma to his chest, like a car accident?"

"He was standing outside a building when a bomb went off. Hell, yeah he experienced trauma!"

"Was he struck by anything?"

"No, but the concussion blew him back about ten or fifteen feet and he struck the pavement on his left side."

"Okay, is it the left side of his chest that doesn't 'look right'?"

"Yeah. And he's holding his left side and in a lot of pain."

"Is he mobile? Has he been assessed for spinal injury?"

"We're waiting for paramedics but he's moving around."

"Okay, what I want you to do is-- do you have someone there to help you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, one of you hold his head as straight as you can. Roll him over onto his left side and hold him there 'til the paramedics arrive. That should alleviate some of his pain and help him breathe. I know he's in a lot of pain, but is he breathing okay?"

"He's struggling."

"Are his lips blue? His fingernails?"

Alex picked up Nick's lax right hand. "No."

"Okay, good then. Did they say when paramedics would be there?"

"Probably another ten minutes."

"Okay, go ahead and roll him, then let me know how he's doing, okay? I'll stay on for you."

Alex set the phone down and gestured for Matthews to go around to Nick's head. Together they rolled Nick onto his left side, his gory left arm pinned between the ground and his chest wall.

It seemed to help a bit, but as Nick tried to pull his legs up to regain his fetal ball he cried out as he bent his left knee. The right one made it, but his left lay sprawled out straight.

Snatching up the cell phone Alex got back on with the 911 operator. "We rolled him, and he's doing a little better."

"Good."

"But he keeps trying to pull his knees up to his chest."

"Yeah, that's normal. No harm, and it probably makes him feel better. Keep an eye on his fingernail beds and maintain the hold on his head if you can."

"Yeah, thanks. Guess we'll have to wait for the medics to do anything else."

"Just keep talking to him, detective. He's probably scared-- not being able to breathe'll do that to you."

"Yeah," Alex agreed shakily. "Thanks."

"Don't worry about hanging up, just go ahead and keep the line open and I'll stay here until the medics show up. Just in case."

He mumbled out another thanks and set the live phone down, then placed a tentative hand on Nick's shoulder. _What kind of platitudes do you offer a man whose ribcage has been staved in?_

It probably didn't really matter what he said as it was clear the injured man would take no notice of anything, so consumed as he was with trying to pull himself into an ever shrinking ball and fighting for air.

Matthews was still cradling Nick's head between two broad hands, trying to keep his neck straight amidst all the movement. He had crouched and was running a quiet patter in the CSI's ear; not much to it, just a murmured litany of reassurances but whether it really helped or Nick was just succumbing to exhaustion, he did quiet some and began to breathe a bit easier.

The sound of multiple sirens heralded the arrival of the fire department and the bomb squad almost simultaneously. The hoses were hauled out as water began dousing the building and the craft shop next door. The bomb squad's duty was forestalled until the flames were out and they could make a sweep of the charred remains.

The ambulances pulled up, two from West Side Division, another from North and a fourth from Fremont District, the alert of multiple casualties bringing buses in from all sectors with reinforcements.

Alex waved his hands in the air to grab the attention of two medics, an older Asian man and a young Hispanic male; they rushed over, laden down with bags and equipment, a third man dropping off a backboard before rushing off to see to other injured.

The two men were brought up to speed as Alex ID'd the downed CSI and gave a quick rundown of what had happened.

"Robby, let's get a C-collar on him first," the Asian instructed calmly. The younger man fumbled the cervical brace out of the bag then hesitated as Nick was on his side.

"It's okay. Officer…?"

"Matthews," the cop stuttered out.

"Matthews will hold his head for you."

The younger man eased the collar around Nick's neck and set the Velcro straps in place.

That done, Matthews and the Asian man, his name tag read Kim, attempted to roll Nick onto the backboard, but the injured man fought them, trying to keep his elbow jammed into his side.

"Mr. Stokes? Nick? I need to roll you onto your back." Kim gave the younger man, an obvious newbie, a nod and a head jerk at Nick's arm. Robby paled but nodded quickly and pried Nick's arm free from his side as Matthews and Kim pulled Nick onto his back and onto the transport board.

_Fuck. Another rookie_, Alex thought, then cringed as he remembered the fate of poor Taylor. He glanced over to see what was going on over by the fallen uniform. A sheet-covered form lay on the pavement while medics worked over another victim.

He closed his eyes against the view and turned back to see they had already started an IV and were assessing Nick's vitals. A barrage of numbers flew by him as Nick writhed in obvious agony against the straps holding him onto the board.

The newbie paramedic had taken a syringe from his med box and was poised to inject the solution into the IV port when the older medic snapped, "What are you giving him?"

"Morphine. 5 migs. Lookit him, he's obviously in pain."

"Yeah, and he probably has head trauma, Lopez. No narcotics 'til his head trauma is assessed at Palms."

Alex murmured to the older medic, "Yeah, but can't you give him something? I mean, Jesus, look at him… he's…"

"I know. We'll get him transported as soon as possible. But we can't dope him up without making sure we don't mess his head up further." He turned back to the rookie. "Get the O2 on him, open it wide. And run his BP again."

A mask was strapped over Nick's mouth and Robby dutifully pumped up the BP cuff. Alex marveled at how they could hear the faint pulse in an artery amidst all the chaos.

"Nick? Do you hurt anywhere else but your chest?"

A nod formed as best as possible against the head and chin straps. His left hand wriggled at his side, finger pointing at his left leg.

"I thinks it's his knee," Alex said, remembering the pain he'd seen when Nick tried to flex it.

Steel scissors flashed in the glow from the flames and the parking lot lights, slicing up Nick's left pant leg. His knee was a mess, already swelling and reddened with infused blood.

"Might be a fracture. Robby, get on the horn, let Palms know we're on our way in, victim has flail chest, probable full left side thoracic involvement." He ran a latex covered hand lightly over the skin on Nick's sternum. "Crepitus felt over left lung. And possible patellar fracture."

He rose to a crouch, hefting the bottom of the backboard in his hands. "Detective, can you grab a bag?"

Robby headed for the ambulance, equipment bag in each hand, walkie-talkie squinched by his shoulder to his mouth as he shouted out the info to the hospital and jumped in the driver's side. Matthews took the head end of the board and Alex snatched up the remaining bag and followed them to the ambulance. Nick was transferred to a stretcher, strapped in tight, then the doors closed and the ambulance headed off, sirens blaring, for the hospital.

Alex stood stunned, exhausted, the taste of ash in his mouth, his ears still ringing. The chaos around him continued; medics barking out orders, firemen in turnout coats on radios, the hiss of the water that continued to pour on the now fully engulfed building. A second sheet-covered body had joined that of the late Officer Taylor, and a third was being placed next to it as he watched.


	3. Chapter 3

Ecklie talked incessantly throughout the entire drive to the scene. Grissom wasn't thrilled with the idea of playing chauffeur, but Conrad insisted they ride together, something about saving on gas. The newly anointed Assistant Director couldn't be that cheap, but that wasn't the only thing eating away at him. The drive to the scene was at a crawl, -it had taken them the last ten minutes to make it a single mile; even with flashing blue and red as an escort, gridlock was hell.

Grissom felt the vein at his forehead beat rapidly, a precursor to a headache, fueled by his present company and the sheer amount still unknown. Part of him went over the last rash of bombings from over two years ago. Targets received their packages through the mail from a disgruntled factory worker cheated out of his thirty-year pension. He'd been no amateur with a prior background in the military. What would this suspect's MO be this time?

What means? Pipe? Remote denotation? Set trigger?

What kind of mind, what motivation drove this one? Grissom mulled this and every schematic of every type of explosive device in his mind. He blocked out the most of the chatter from his passenger, leaving scant room for any pertinent facts that Ecklie mentioned on during his one- sided conversation. It wasn't like the new AD had briefed him about anything since they had left in haste.

"Send Catherine to Desert Palms," Grissom instructed, not caring that the other man glared at him for giving an order.

The supervisor glanced at him briefly, letting him know in no uncertain terms that this was a time to work, and play who was king of the hill later. If casualties were sent to the hospital, then he wanted one of his best people there to process and speak to any potential witnesses.

Ecklie flipped his cell phone shut; for once it was silent in the car. One serene moment where he could plan in peace.

"You find out which CSI was sent to the scene?"

Grissom could see the bouncing lights of emergency vehicles and the barriers of roadblocks up ahead. "No, I can't recall if it was Warrick or Nick." He held the other man's passive face for a second. "I know Sara and Sofia were the only ones available for a quadruple, since everyone else was spread so thin."

He didn't say anything else, exiting the SUV, leaving his kit behind as he saw the spray of water dousing the flames; nothing to explore until the blaze was extinguished and all potential evidence destroyed even more.

"Can't keep up with your people, Gil?" Ecklie shook his head. "Let's find Brown or Stokes. We need to know what the hell happened here," he demanded, before heading into the fray.

A rowdy, insane-looking bunch of bystanders loitered around like a group of rejects from a college game gone wild. It was hard to tell what this obliterated structure had once been, roof punctuated by large charred openings, windows blasted out, but the main front wall and sides remained. The stone had withstood the intense expansion of air and fire.

It took an incredible amount of force to wreak the devastation seen, and the essence of any bomb was to destroy. The pieces of the detonation device were a trail leading to the how, and to the whom. Knowing the place, understanding it, getting into the mind of the suspect, that was how both roads would then meet.

Grissom watched at the billowing smoke that clouded the air, several people still being triaged in the parking lot, and he searched, looking for one of his team. He found no blue vest, none of his crew waiting impatiently with gloved hands to begin the extraction. He searched the various medics, perhaps his CSI lending some kind of aid... but nothing.

Exhaling, the supervisor found his target. A ragged Alex Vartann directing various officers with Conrad Ecklie waiting in the wings for answers. Grissom walked up, eyes still sifting through the crowd, still empty handed.

"Bomb squad has found the site of the explosion. They're clearing the rest of the scene looking for any secondary devices." Ecklie explained, cutting off any question about proceeding inside.

Grissom waited for Vartann to finish with another officer, while the AD obliged him with a few more facts. "Seems the primary scene for the double was in the back; I've been told its been completely compromised."

"How many?" the supervisor inquired, noting the body bags waiting transport.

The director stared solemnly at the unattended casualties, the few EMTS on the scene busy with people with a pulse.

"Over a dozen. At least three, probably four deaths. " Ecklie turned to the detective who finally had all his people busy with containment; Alex's grim face was the tip of the iceberg floating behind haunted eyes.

"A young fan ran back inside right before the place exploded. The body hasn't been retrieved yet. Emergency personnel arrived and took out the blaze, now Bomb Squad's running through so …" Alex stopped to run a shaky hand through his hair and exhale slowly. "Officer Taylor was killed trying to push back some of the drunk fans," he explained.

All three men went silent on the pronouncement of the death of one of their own. Alex cleared his throat. "Stokes was still trying to get the last hold outs----"

"And why did it take so long to do so, Detective? You and Stokes were here for over half an hour. You do understand protocols for clearing a scene?"

Vartann got into the balding man's face. "This was a rough crowd, almost a hundred inebriated guys. There was just the two of us and a few of my men to corral them all. Traffic's backed up, all other personnel are doing extra duty at the convention center, and I--"

A hand squeezed the younger man's arm. Dobransky patted the irate detective's shoulder, then quickly removed it, eyes darting at the two nerd squad men, warning them to back the hell off. "Captain Miller just gave the okay, so now the crime scene guys get to root through the whole mess and find whatever little parts we need to find the asshole who did this." The gruff older man looked at the newcomers. "Hope you got more people than this." He looked back at the ruined building, nostrils flaring at the sulfur in the air. "You're gonna need 'em."

Ecklie and Grissom exchanged a silent glance that read 'truce', and the supervisor turned his attention back to the exhausted detective. "I'll grab Nick as soon as I find him, and then maybe we can get Warrick off his case and have everyone else pitch in when they dump their stuff at the lab."

He felt his ire calm slightly as Ecklie nodded with his plan. Instead of allowing the bureaucrat to annoy Vartann any more with useless jabs he turned to him in a calm matter. The detective stared at him with drawn expression.

Grissom pursed his lips, then glanced back at the scene with new eyes, noting the absence of his criminalist with all new meaning.

"Grissom."

He closed his eyes, dreading that tone...he knew what it meant. Looking at the remains of the gutted out bar, the supervisor looked into the sympathetic eyes of Alex Vartann.

"Stokes...Nick was near the blast, when the pub exploded."

Grissom's cell rang, and went unanswered as the supervisor stared dumbly at the detective, his mind having a difficult time comprehending what his ears had just heard.

* * *

"Did you down a double shot of espresso when I wasn't looking?"

The sharpness of her tone kept his foot from spinning on its heel, and Greg was left trying to regain a semblance of a non-jittery, caffeinated pace. No, the only expensive coffee he paid good money for wasn't on the market currently- this was the result of two bottles of Mountain Dew and the candy bar that became his dinner, infusing his veins with caffeine It was that heart accelerating combo that made him edgy. Also the fact that his routine, boring night as lackey had been catapulted into the ER at Desert Palms, without dinner, preparation for the arrival of victims, or information except the words explosion and casualties.

Greg wasn't too keen on processing a burn victim, or worse, maybe the charred remains of one. The stench of burnt flesh took days to get out of your olfactory system, and he should know. Instead of completing the circuit or, God forbid, sitting in one those chairs designed to send you to the chiropractor, he bounced on his feet, smoothing back some of his many errant hairs, and readjusted his suit jacket again.

He hated the damn thing; no tie of course, and his slacks, well, maybe he should have listened to Warrick about paying the extra dime to get them tailored, but he was still getting used to his substantial pay adjustment. His kit lay abandoned near the tread he wore away in the linoleum.

"Do you know how much longer?" he asked for the third time.

Catherine's expression spoke volumes, but it softened. "Waiting games are no fun, but you need to be at your best. And that means calm."

He patted a drumbeat against his thigh. "How does processing a bomb victim help? Isn't most of the evidence at the scene? I mean, wouldn't I be better suited learning how to ---"

"We go where we're told, Greg. If you want to keep moving up the ranks, sometimes you don't ask, you just do," Catherine interrupted.

"Too many cooks at the primary scene?"

If the word smoldering could be personified, Catherine's expression did it justice. Greg offered a weak smile.

"Grissom and Ecklie were already en route, and the last out the building are the last to the finish line."

The female lead of the graveyard shift seemed to enjoy using allegory and power references a lot lately. Hopefully she would get the promotion she'd been bucking for; she'd become worse than Grissom with the quotes.

The hustle and bustle of the hospital hummed behind their conversation, Greg not sure what to say next to occupy the time.

The heavy exhale beside him signaled that hungry lion mode had dissipated and the more compassionate eyes of his coworker of many years resurfaced. "If the victim was near the blast, then they have vital information about the seconds leading up the explosion. Smells, sounds--any tiny detail is better than a dozen scattered accounts from bystanders."

He nodded, his body relaxing with knowing the full importance of their presence.

"If there's any trace on the clothes, it can prove just as helpful as any recovered parts of the device. We can substantiate re-creations of an explosion, based on anything recovered from the victim's effects. Everything counts, Greg."

His chest expanded and sank as he released a large breath, his sugar high curtailed by the steady mind needed for the assignment. Before he could open his mouth the ambulance bay doors exploded open, and two paramedics rushed a gurney right by them to the awaiting personnel in the ER.

Both CSIs followed hastily behind, trying to glean a sense of the status of the victim.

The trauma room was an open area, separated from the waiting room by two swinging metal doors. They had spoken to the staff beforehand about the situation; law enforcement and emergency agencies worked together during many situations, though they had to wait out of the way of the team of nurses and the resident on call.

Adrenaline fired through Greg's veins with the frenzy of voices and bodies, ears listening for the patient's vitals. The man's groans of pain made his teeth clench in sympathy.

Dr. Dominga, the young female resident unwrapped a stethoscope from around her neck. The Asian EMT put the brake on the gurney. "We've got a male, mid thirties, blunt force trauma to the torso with signs of a flail chest on the left side. Heavy crackle sounds over left lung with increasing respiratory distress. Resps 85, started on 10 liters of O2."

Greg's throat constricted at the awful choking sounds, like a leaky wet sputtering hose, coming from the victim. Trying to breathe wasn't supposed to be so damn hard. He tried not to concentrate on the face, even if he could see one. Just at the dark colored boots, the right one jerking about with the victim's weak struggle. The left one still amidst shredded layers of denim, and a strap being loosened by a very young looking medic.

"Pulse thready at 140. BP 160 over 90. Possible patellar fracture. Possible head trauma, pupils uneven and dilated."

The doctor shined a light into the man's eyes. "He conscious the whole time?"

"In and out on the ride over. Victim is a member of the LVPD, name is Nick Stokes."

Greg felt every hair on his body stand on end, his muscles drawing taut upon hearing the name. His eyes remained fixed on the boots …Timberland hiking boots. Nick's favorite pair of kicks.

He must have made some audible sound because Catherine grabbed his shoulder, almost using him as an anchor, the horror in her eyes reflected back in his.

What were they saying? His mind blanked as a pain-filled moan made him flinch when Nick was transferred from gurney to stretcher, still on the board. A flurry of hands and orders. Scissors sliced away the rest of his clothes.

"Changing him to humidified O2," a respiratory therapist announced, plugging a tube into a plastic container of water. Greg had flirted with her early but forgot her name. The young therapist waited for Dr Dominga's next set of instructions.

Blood dripped into Nick's eyes, and a nurse quickly wiped it away. His friend didn't seem aware of his coworker's presence as his body weakly tried curling to his left side against the straps.

The physician gently placed pressure on both bare shoulders. "Mr. Stokes? Nick, I know you're hurting, but we need you on your back."

"Ch-ch-essst." Nick's voice was slurred, the last syllable ending in more of a strangle.

The physician held the injured man's head between her hands trying to still his movements. "I know. We're going to find out why and help you, okay."

The resident listened with her stethoscope. "Get me an arterial blood gas, and I want full cranial, cervical, and thoracic x-rays!""

A nurse grabbed a large male nurse's shoulder and asked for his help. The man held Nick's arm still while she pointed a large needle down into the crook of Nick's elbow. Greg squirmed a little when the syringe wiggled as it dug for an artery. All he could think about was Doc Robbins' tools of the trade, and how his friend was awake for all this. A container attached to the needle filled with crimson and after hastily dabbing the hole with cotton, the blood was taken to some device off to the side

Greg wracked his brain; what was the last thing they talked about that night? The rookie had ambushed the other man on break, itching like some junkie to challenge him to a game of hockey on the X-Box. Nick could never back down from a dare and for the first time, Greg had kicked Texan ass. Greg relished the moment, doing end zone dances even if there was no such thing in hockey.

He felt Catherine squeeze his bicep and looked over at her. "I stole all these cheats on line. I didn't play fair." The female lead looked at him quizzically, and Greg didn't bother explaining his crazy line of thought.

He turned back, studying the car wreck that was his friend.

One side of the sheet was stained with bloody spots as the entire left side of Nick's body was a mangled looking mess of abrasions and gashes. A male nurse hastily redressed a red-soaked bandage on his head wound, a wicked laceration from when his skull had met the pavement. His arm would need more than just a simple bandage; layers of his skin had been scrubbed off in his encounter with the ground.

Greg swallowed; it was the least of this staff's concerns. Right now it was all about getting air into Nick's starving body.

"Right lung clear," the resident declared, moving to another spot along bruised skin. "Absent breath sounds on the left."

"You want me to sent up a vent?"

Nick sounded like he was slurping through a straw, his hand ripping away his oxygen mask in a fit of confusion.

The respiratory therapist rushed to place it back on as someone noted, "Tachycardia is rising!"

The crazy beeping of the heart monitor and other machines made Greg's head swim with all the questions and orders mixing into nonsense. The room disappeared and that scared the hell out of him, but then a hand slipped into his sweaty one and Greg realized he had closed his eyes to shut off the drama. The smell of blood and antiseptic and the sight of torn up flesh made him ill.

The sound of rolling wheels heralded the arrival of the x-ray team, the staff taking pictures of Nick's battered body, capturing film of what was broken inside, a guide on what to fix.

His breath was coming in high-pitched, painful sounding squeals, in between quieter groans and increasingly slurred words.

Dr. Dominga bent down to calm him. "Do you know where you are, Nick?" the physician outwardly concerned by the disoriented behavior.

The criminalist made noises that didn't reassemble any kind of speech. "Get me those head films and get CT ready!" the doctor added, her face attempting to make out anything Nick was saying.

They had to vanquish that wild look in Nick's eyes, frightened, God, petrified, hand still trying to curl around that freaky looking chest. Was it supposed to do...that? Bulging in and out the wrong way?

"Slow down those fluids, we don't want to overload his system and create more problems," the physician snapped at one of her nurses who quickly readjusted things.

Greg didn't know what to do; it was too much to handle. He searched out the face of his superior, of a long time friend, for the answers. He saw Catherine's eyes moisten as she fought for control. Greg swallowed painfully, drawing strength from somewhere deep down. He'd find courage to ride it out, like his first autopsy, first slain family. He heard the older woman lose her battle, red puffy eyes releasing tears that stained her cheeks.

He held Catherine closer, like a role reversal, his numb façade protecting a racing heartbeat. WWGD? What would Grissom do? It was what they all aspired to knowing and following. Grissom would think in terms of science. He had to subtract the emotion and stick with evidence. Then all the medical jargon wouldn't be so damn scary.

All that flew out the window when Greg heard something he'd never forget.

A sick, raspy hacking. The gurgling sound of a clogged sink completed the image in his head.

Then Nick's words from a long past lesson came to him. _"Our lungs have air in them. You add water, you get foam." _

"He's coughing up blood!"

"Where are those damn x-rays?"

Catherine pulled him out of the path of rolling thunder, the staff too busy to kick their asses out of the curtained area.

"I've got a chest tube ready? You want me to start an incision?"

Some intern sounded too eager and Greg, in a rare display, wanted to deck him.

Bodies hovered around Dr. Dominga, one x-ray after another slapped on a light board. He couldn't see Nick, not with a hulking male nurse re-arranging IVs and setting up an instrument tray.

The respiratory therapist was ready for instruction, her machine prepped and ready to go.

"There's a hemothorax." The doctor pointed to an area on one of the films.

Greg winced, his scientific knowledge kicking in automatically. Hemothorax meant blood in the chest cavity.

"We could try..."

Greg honed in on that hopeful voice, but Dr. Dominga cut it off. "There are signs of pneumothorax as well."

Pneumothorax meant _air_ in the chest cavity. All those long days learning Latin. But it wasn't comforting, in fact, knowing exactly what was happening made it even worse. Both air and blood were crushing Nick's lungs from the inside.

"Too risky to do here, see the puncture around the left one there?"

X-rays of broken bones. Several ribs in the wrong place, colors of white and grey over a sea of black. Blobs and discolorations that his brain interpreted into their cause and effect.

_Screw science._

"He's got a better chance upstairs."

Greg backed away before he and Catherine were run over. With the pronouncement that their duties were done, the same large male nurse began corralling them back and he didn't even get a chance to say a word to his friend, or even grab his hand.

A nurse talked to Catherine who had remarkably pulled herself together in record time.

"We have your victim's clothes," the nurse said as she handed the supervisor a plastic bag with Nick's belongings.

_Victim._

How come that hurt most of all?

Greg _felt_ like a CSI Level One. Helpless and useless. Catherine didn't say one word to him; instead she brushed a hand over the corners of her eyes and picked up her cell phone.

Someone had to tell Grissom... someone had to break this terrible news to the rest of the team. He wished he still felt cold and desensitized. The only comforting thought was that at least Nick had been spared the burn unit, and then Greg left to find a restroom so he could throw up.

* * *

"Hey, Jim. What's all the hubbub? There's like ten times the amount of usual chatter comin' outa that uni's radio."

Brass gave a sardonic smile to the tall man standing in front of him. "What can I say, Warrick? It's the city that never sleeps, right?"

"Think that's New York, boss."

The older man snorted. "Shoulda been ours. Although I like the whole 'What happens in Vegas…' thing. Sometimes I wish it _wouldn't _stay here, but..." He raised his hands out to his sides. "It's all our shit to deal with, huh?"

Warrick smiled. "Don't I know it. Well, at least we can put this particular piece of shit to bed. Break in was a sloppy job; perp left prints _and _the screwdriver he used behind. Run 'em through the system and the fool's all yours."

"Ah, another criminal mastermind. I love it when they make it easy. You headed back for General Tso's and Xbox?"

"You kiddin'? Ecklie's got payroll wrapped up tighter than a virgin, man. We barely have time to scratch before headin' out on the next call. No, I'm headed over to help Sara and Sofia on a multi-car MVA. Looks like a hit 'n' run with some major damage- four dead last I heard. Some prick in a sports car ran a red light."

"Maybe you'll catch a break with the traffic cameras."

"Two gimmes in one night? Askin' too much, Jim. I'll see you 'round." He patted the detective on the shoulder and turned to leave as his pager went off and Jim's cell chirruped almost simultaneously.

Warrick stopped and checked the ID. _Sara. Probably telling me to hustle my ass on over there. _

"Yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered angrily. A hand on his arm stopped him cold and he looked to see Jim, ridiculously small phone plastered against his ear, stricken look on his face. The hand never dropped, it held him firmly, the detective's grip tightening slightly as he continued to listen to the unknown caller.

"Mobley know yet?" Jim asked the air. "Glad I didn't hafta call him. What's the body count?"

The answer tightened Jim's features. "Jesus." Another long pause, hand never leaving Warrick's arm. "Ah, Christ. How bad? Where is he- where'd they take him?"

Fingers finally released the CSI's arm to fall limply at his side as Jim continued listening. "Yeah, Warrick's here with me. He was headed over to the scene Sidle and Curtis were running… Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Keep me posted, Gil."

He thumbed the call off with a savage punch at the tiny phone, slipping it back into his pocket, aware that the man in front of him was waiting for an explanation.

"What's goin' on, Jim? That was Grissom?"

The older man wiped a hand over his florid and sweating face, letting out a long sigh.

"Yeah. Bomb went off at a bar over on the west side. Three dead so far, including a rookie officer. Miles Taylor. Only eight months on the job."

"Are you--? Man, Jim, I _know_ Taylor. Me and Nick played hoops with him a few times. What was he doin' there? Was he off duty?"

"No. Crowd control. It was the scene of a double earlier tonight."

It was dawning on him now; Jim could see it in his eyes. "That the double Nick was at?"

"Yeah. He and Vartann were running it. Alex told Gil that Nick got caught in the blast."

"Did he--" Rick stopped to swallow. "Is he--"

A raised hand cut him off. "He's alive. Gil got there too late, bus had already whisked him off to the Palms, but said Alex told him he looked pretty rough."

The tall man had already gathered himself to make a run for his truck when Jim's hand regained its place on his arm. "Warrick! Grissom told me you need to go help Sara."

"What? But--"

"Catherine already went over to the hospital, and Sara and Curtis need your help."

"Who's runnin' the bombing scene?"

"Grissom and Ecklie."

"Ecklie? Are you--? The man's a joke! May as well just hand the bomber a get outa jail free card. That man couldn't find his ass with both hands."

"Conrad started out on _my_ team. He's got the skills. He'd just rather push paper than analyze evidence. Leave it be, Warrick. Nothing to be done about trying to fight this. Just go help Sidle and Curtis. I'm heading over there, and Grissom's there too."

"Why you get to go over there?"

"Because I'm a captain, Warrick, and Taylor was one of my men."

* * *

"Kevin?"

He ignored her, eyes rooted to the images flashing on the TV.

"Kevin?"

She'd entered the room, the smell of mothballs and rosewater carried with her.

"Kevin! What are ya looking at that has you ignorin' me?"

"Just the news, Nana."

"What's that? The news? Since when does the news entrance you so?"

"It's just the news, Nana. I'll help you get ready for bed in a minute."

A gnarled hand, paper-thin skin, blue veins poking through translucent white, landed on his shoulder.

He forced his eyes from the TV and gave her a smile. "It's pretty exciting, Nana. Look! Someone bombed a British pub!"

Her face fell and he couldn't understand why. "Nana! Here, in the States even, they're blowin' up the Brits. Just like home."

She shook her head sadly. Long white-blonde locks ran down over her shoulders and halfway down her back. She'd taken down her hair for bed, the myriad pins she uses in the little Belleek ceramic shell dish on her bedside table.

"Kevin. Turn off that violent rubbish. It will bring the nightmares back, love."

His eyes went back to the TV, the blue and red flashing lights reflected on his pale features. "Don't have those anymore, Nana," he muttered distractedly. "I wanna see this. I'll help you in just a minute. In fact, I'll bring you in a tea. How's that sound?" He freed himself from the TV screen's hold on him to glance back at his grandmother.

She gave him a short nod and a smile. "Well…alright then. But don't watch too much more, Kevin. Please?"

"Sure, Nana. I think the weather will be up next."

He watched her toddle off, bent back framed in a thick flannel nightgown, cardigan over that. Once she cleared the room his eyes returned to the TV just in time to see the camera pan to a fresh-scrubbed face in a faux-Chanel suit, microphone in hand as she stated, "Callie Christopher, Channel Four News." A Chiclet-toothed anchor replaced her, putting on his "grave news" face. "We will update you as more information comes in. Up next, Charlie Vargas with the weather."

Kevin picked up the remote from the arm of the chair, hit a button and waited for the tape to rewind, then ran the report from the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

99.9 percent.

Dust. Layer upon layer everywhere; a fine coat covered every surface. Fingertip evidence; every inch needed to be scoured with a fine toothed comb. The larger debris had been moved to a central location to be tagged and examined. The rest?

99.9 percent useless. Statistically speaking, no matter how much manpower or sheer number of meticulous tests, that was the percentage of how much meaningless material had to be covered.

Grissom felt every year of his age; knees bent too long, hand frozen over his flashlight, knowing that under the rubble were the tiniest pieces of bomb casing and the trigger device. Under all the dirt, burned and cindered material- _hundreds _of pounds of it- lay fragments detectable only by a microscope. He had begun in the back, near a blast crater in the rear wall; a silent witness to the detonation point. Dark scorch marks like splattered black paint covered the few feet in front of him as he breathed in air still heavy with fumes and smoke.

Melted metal and incinerated wood; signs of the flashpoint. Grissom raised his beam of light, spreading its glow over a wider area. His eyes traced the gutted out roof, support beams still mostly in place, ragged metal fabrication blown to bits. He narrowed his eyes, thinking, when crunching sounds disturbed his visual assessment.

Sara had lifted a piece of rubble out of the way to begin filtering out the next square foot. "We need more people here."

They were the first real words she'd spoken since her arrival. Grissom used his light like a laser pointer, imagining the possible bomb blast. "ATF and Homeland Security are on their way."

She raised an eyebrow in concern. "Grissom, we can't--"

He turned to face her, his posture stiff and wooden. It spoke volumes, despite the edge to his voice. "It's under our jurisdiction. They'll be working for us."

"For now."

Both CSIs glared at the voice that intruded on their conversation. Ecklie scanned the area of utter destruction, seeing it as more of an annoyance than the complex puzzle that it was. "We don't know what happened here. I've fed the press the usual vague scenarios: gas leak, possible electrical fire under extreme conditions."

"Vartann said that Nick warned of a bomb before the place exploded," Sara snapped.

The Assistant Director glared at her coolly, then ignored her completely, addressing the other man. "You need to teach your team to watch their tone with superiors."

Sara muttered, loudly enough for Ecklie to hear, "Doesn't change the fact that Nick---"

"We don't know anything that Stokes saw or heard." Ecklie's voice bounced around the now hollowed out bar.

Fire glinted under the entomologist's glasses and Sara swore she witnessed a rare slip of control as he crossed the distance towards the weasel.

"There's no statement because he's not out of surgery yet, Conrad." He hissed the man's name with thinly-veiled malice.

The meaning in the supervisor's words bounced off of Ecklie's thick armor. "What is it that you say, Gil? Let the room speak to you."

Grissom stood silently, then returned to his inspection without another word, obviously stifling the reaction the other man had hoped for.

Ecklie sighed heavily. "You'd better make good headway on this case. We can't afford to let this lab come under scrutiny because of sloppy procedures and poor leadership. Then they'll have no choice but to let the Feds take over."

With his subordinate's back effectively towards him Ecklie took one final look around, shaking his head. As he left he spoke over his shoulder. "By the way, rein in Brown. He needs to do his job and stop letting emotions cloud his judgment."

"His best friend was nearly blown up," Sara gritted out between clenched teeth.

"And five other people were killed." With a hand through his thinning hair, the man's voice softened, just a tad. "Also all the more reason to keep focused."

* * *

"Last one, Greg. How are you holding up?" 

"I'm good, Cath. At least this guy wasn't too bad. Said he might even go home tomorrow."

"He have anything we can use?"

"Well, he had a chunk of the building lodged in his...in his... Let's just say, where it didn't belong. Doc gave it to me to log just in case. How was your guy?"

"Loud. Drunk. And handsy. Nothing I haven't dealt with a hundred times before," she said with a knowing, I-used-to-strip-for-a-living smile. "He was knocked down from the blast but was farther away. Nothing I could get outa him but he did offer to take me to Hawaii on his next business trip."

"You thinking of taking him up on it, Cath?" Greg asked with a small waggle of his eyebrows.

"Nope. He flashed me what was under his johnnie. As if that would help seal the deal," she snorted as she handed a sealed and labeled grocery bag to Greg. "Here are his clothes to add to the pile."

"So," the rookie sighed. "That makes an even dozen injured we've processed. There are five waiting for us with Doc Robbins."

"Five? I thought there were four: the three outside and the kid from inside."

"They found a guy behind the pub. EMTs said he looked taken out in the initial blast."

"Greg, that's huge! Why didn't you tell me? He could be our bomber!"

Greg smiled ruefully. "His buddy ID'd him on the scene. Said he had gone around back to take a leak while they were emptying the building. LVFD guy found him with his fly down. How shitty is that, huh? Going out in mid-pee?"

"Pretty shitty, Greg. You're right." She rubbed a hand on Greg's shoulder.

"So…Nick's lucky number thirteen." She saw Greg straighten as if in preparation for going in, then glanced at the slim gold face of her watch. "Nurse said he was in recovery about an hour ago. Would you mind packing up the Denali with what we have already? I am beat." To illustrate she huffed out a breath and made a point of rubbing a hand across her brow.

Greg wasn't fooled one minute but took the pretense offered. "No problem. Just catching my second wind." He rubbed her shoulder in a tentative attempt at returning her reassurances. "I'll be out in the truck with the air on for when you get back. If he's up, you tell him I said, hey, okay?"

"Of course," she said, smiling sadly. She watched the young man stride down the quiet hallway laden down with evidence pulled from a dozen burned and damaged bodies, then turned on her heel and followed the yellow line on the hospital floor towards the surgical unit.

* * *

"Excuse me, I'm Catherine Willows with the Crime Lab. I'm here to see a patient from the explosion at The George." She rested her open wallet on the station desk for the nurse behind the counter to see. 

After a more than perfunctory look at her ID the nurse nodded then tilted her head over towards three plastic chairs lined up outside the recovery room. "The doctor's in with Mr. Stokes now. You can talk to him about seeing the patient when he 's done."

Catherine tried warming up the coolly professional woman with her most ingratiating smile. "Mr. Stokes isn't just a case. He's a friend. He works with me…with us…at the Crime Lab. Can you tell me how he's doing?"

The nurse appeared to consider the question for a moment, then shook her head shortly. "It would be best if you asked the doctor that." She relented slightly. "Dr. Singh's pretty cool. Give him a few minutes and I'm sure he'll be glad to talk to you."

Catherine gave her a grateful look then walked over and cooled her heels in the plastic chair. It was longer than a few minutes, she noted, checking her watch frequently. Horrible scenarios started running through her head and she started every time a bell rang or a monitor beeped from the rooms around her.

Gil had warned her something bad would come from being so shorthanded. If Nick and Vartann had had the assistance they needed… _Damn_ Conrad for wooing her with visions of dollar signs and promotions. And when did she start putting money ahead of the job? Ahead of her friends? Christ, it's not like she really even needed the damn money. Sam's check was sitting in an account, collecting interest, waiting for Lindsey's college years, to be dipped into when needed. When needed. So if braces were needed, the money was there.

Of course, the promotion wasn't all about money. A lot of it was pride. Knowing she was a damn good CSI, her personal history be hanged. Her fear was of always being hanged by that same history. Held back, crushed under the heel of the powers that be. Graying men who figured there was no way a former dancer would ever be good enough.

A rich and exotic voice calling her name roused her from her inner monologue. A tall dark man in a navy blue turban was standing at the nurses' station. The same nurse she'd spoken to earlier looked over and smiled, pointing at the doctor.

He walked over as Catherine rose from her seat to shake an extended hand.

"Thanks for your time, doctor. I'm here to find out about Mr. Stokes. I'm processing evidence from the explosion."

"I'm afraid Mr. Stokes won't be aiding your investigation, Ms. Willows. There was no projectile injury or injury from the explosion itself. Rather Mr. Stokes was blown free from the blast and sustained his injuries when he struck the pavement with some force. In fact, his injuries are remarkably similar to those we see in motorcycle accidents. The broken ribs, the road rash, as they call it."

"Dr. Singh, I'm not just here as a criminalist. Nick works with us. He was at the pub working a scene when the explosion occurred."

"I see. I was led to believe by the news that it was a bomb of some sort?"

"We're not sure yet what happened. I suppose we could find it was a gas explosion, but yes, we are working under the supposition that it was a bombing. In fact, an officer on the scene reports Nick shouting something about a bomb minutes before the explosion. Has he woken up at all for us to talk to him? He may have seen something or someone…"

The doctor was already shaking his head. "He has yet to waken, but Mr. Stokes sustained a concussion. I'm waiting on his MRI results to get a better picture of the damage, and his records indicate this wasn't the first concussion he's suffered."

Catherine paused, then remembered. "Yeah, he um, had an incident at a scene. His assailant threw him through a second story window."

"You folks seem to have a dangerous job," the doctor commented. Catherine bit back the response on her lips, flashing to her own on scene run-in and that of poor Holly Gribbs. Instead she smiled briefly and nodded. "The officer on the scene said Nick was having trouble breathing, and you mentioned some broken ribs?"

"Ah, yes. He broke several ribs on the left side of his chest. The fractures were severe, essentially breaking free and falling into his chest cavity, a condition we call flail chest. One of the ribs punctured a lung."

Catherine paled and raised a hand to her mouth, manicured nails running along her bottom lip. "We saw him, in the ER. But they rushed him away so fast…" Her eyes dampened.

The doctor smiled gently within his dark, sharply trimmed beard. "We repaired the puncture, Ms. Willows. In fact, rather serendipitously, we were able to enter his chest cavity through the break in his ribcage instead of having to crack his sternum. It will save him quite the scar."

His smile sobered. "He's stable. He still has a long road ahead of him, but he's a young man and was in peak physical condition before the injuries and that will aid him greatly in the weeks and months to come."

"Months," Catherine breathed incredulously.

"Yes, ma'am. The body doesn't jump right back from a second concussion, and the damage to his chest was quite severe. He also dislocated his patella, his kneecap. It will be painful, but with bracing and physical therapy he should regain most usage of it. Has Mr. Stokes' family been notified?"

She ran a hand through her hair. "No…not yet. I think we were waiting to know more before calling them."

"Perhaps it would be best if you were to call them and let them know. His recovery will be long and painful and he will need his family to help him with it."

Catherine straightened, mama bear look flashing in her eyes. "We're his family. And we'll get him through this."

The doctor nodded and waved a hand towards the door to the room. "Perhaps you would like to see him now?"

* * *

The only time Catherine had seen Nick lying in a hospital bed was right after his fall. A small neat square of white gauze on his forehead was the only outward sign that he was anything but catching a cat nap. A few hours later he'd been sent home with a wrist brace and some pain pills and he'd been back to work the next week. 

The square of gauze was in a similar place on his brow, snugged up further into the start of his hairline. His already buzzed hair had been shorn down further in a few inches to allow for a three by three bandage to be taped down. The eye below it was purpling and swelling.

More bandages covered his left ear, the abrasions on his cheek and jaw left exposed, red and weepy. The light white gauze continued on his left arm from his elbow down to his hand where a metal brace was wrapped around his pinky finger.

As she drew closer her feet grew heavier. It was astounding the amount of abuse a body could take and still continue to function.

He was cradled in the bed, pillow under each arm, bracing his chest on both sides. Pinky-gray Ace bandages had been wrapped around his chest over another large square of white gauze. His flesh was stained saffron yellow with surgical iodine.

A sheet and blanket covered one leg up to his lap, the other leg raised and uncovered, his knee wrapped in more of the taupe fabric around ice packs set on both sides of the black and purple joint. More tubes and wires ran from his body than Catherine could decipher.

She took another step closer to the bed. The lingering medicinal smells of alcohol, ether and iodine clung to him.

A larger than normal mask had been strapped around his face covering his mouth, and a hissing bellows-like sound issued from it every few seconds.

"It's a BiPap," a voice said quietly from behind her, startling her in its unexpectedness and the uncanny way the speaker had known what she was looking at. She turned to find the doctor at her side.

"It's like an external ventilator. Helps him breathe where a vent would be too strong for his damaged lung."

She returned her gaze to Nick's damaged body. "God, it's so much …" She trailed off.

"We'll know more once he wakes up. We'll be able to get a better gauge on his brain function and how his lung is handling the surgery. And, I'm afraid I have to ask you to go now. It's late and he needs to rest undisturbed."

She resisted the urge to touch Nick's hand, one of the few unharmed parts of his body but for the IV inserted in it.

"Leave your contact information at the desk, Ms. Willows. Come back and see him in the morning."

She nodded, her voice swallowed up in held back tears. "Thank you," she whispered, then hurried out the door, moisture streaming down her cheeks as she made her way through the maze and out to the parking lot. Greg would be waiting for her, and it wouldn't do to have him see her weeping like a soap actress. She hurriedly dashed her hands across her eyes and pasted on her all business face. She opened up the truck door and clambered in, Greg turning with appraising eyes trying to read her expression.

"He's gonna be fine, Greg. Let's get this stuff to the lab and maybe I'll see home sometime in the next day, huh?"

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it, nodded, put the truck in drive and pulled away.

* * *

Jim Brass juggled three cups of coffee as he kept from bumping into any officers left at the scene. The press had been moved back, but several people from the crowd still remained, waiting in some version of a line for a statement. Even with the number of other detectives and patrolmen, it had been a difficult process deciphering drunken accounts and then trying to diffuse hangover- induced short tempers. 

The Captain'd had enough chowder-mixed-with-beer breath to last a lifetime, and he had done little interview duty. Alex Vartann needed an IV of caffeine for his slumped form, head rested wearily against one elbow on knee-supported palm.

"It's not the gourmet crap espresso you usually order, but this should help a bit." Brass held his full load out to be relieved of one cup before the hot liquid ruined his sleeves.

The dark-haired detective mumbled a thanks and blew slowly over the lid.

"Stuff's not that hot. Had to go across the street and got stopped a dozen times on my way back," the Captain mused, taking a sip of his own with his right hand.

"It could be instant for all I care." Vartann took a couple large swallows and closed his eyes as the warmth brought color to his pale and drawn features. "Hell of a day."

Brass snorted. "We still have morning to deal with -- news conference."

The younger cop growled. "Fuck that." Then rubbed at some tension in his knotted-up neck. "Who's the other cup for?'

The older man nodded in the direction of the makeshift tent erected for the first stage of evidence cataloging before transport to the lab.

Vartann shook his head. "I don't think Brown needs any of this. He's too keyed up as it is."

"Yeah, let him work off steam hauling around chunks of building and sorting through paint cans filled with fragment pieces." Brass cleared his throat. "Sheriff actually informed Taylor's wife-- the bullpen will handle any immediate needs for bills and care for the kids."

The younger detective chewed on his lip. "He didn't even know what hit him. His role was crowd control, a rookie's gig." Vartann let exhaustion fuel his tirade. "That pub was filled with nearly a hundred people. Who the hell would want to kill a bunch of drunken businessmen and football fans?"

The Styrofoam cup dropped to the asphalt; a slew of curses flew from the normally easy-going man. "This could have been a massacre, Jim!"

Brass placed both cups of joe on the ground since there was nothing around to rest them on and grabbed the other man's shoulder. "It wasn't. Hear me? You and Nick got nearly everyone out and saved a lot of lives."

"You know how long it took to clear that scene?" Vartann stared at his boss, then back at the gutted tavern; nothing of the quaint charm remained. The owner still wandered around looking lost among his property.

"He told me to get everyone out, then the fool went right back in."

Brass barely heard the mumble under his guy's breath, and wished for a flask of scotch instead of cooling coffee.

Vartann wrestled back control of his emotions and seemed embarrassed by his outburst, looking sadly at the spill. "Sorry about the drink."

"You can have Warrick's."

Jim handed him the other cup, and Vartann looked past his shoulder. "Speaking of..."

The lanky criminalist had slipped on coveralls for the dirty kind of work that had kept him centered and on task. He pulled off a pair of work gloves and breathed in the night, only to have his face scrunch up from the acidic air.

"How goes it?" Brass inquired, shrugging his shoulders at the scowl at needless small talk he received. "Okaaaay, how's your belly? Full from chewed-out asses?"

Warrick grumbled, tossing one of the work gloves in the air and snatching it back. "Dropping crap off with no rhyme or reason only creates double the work."

"These are beat cops just trying to give a hand," Vartann argued, defending his squad.

The criminalist didn't seem to hear him. "Protocol needs to be followed. This all may seem like scraps of junk, but it's all important. I have several areas marked for different types of debris," he argued.

"Yeah? Well, it all looks like garbage to me. Guess we don't all have the abilities to determine atomic makeup at first glance like you do, Mr. Wizard."

Warrick glared at the Captain, not amused by the ribbing. His face fell after along silent moment, then he ambled over and stared at both cups of coffee. "Wish I had one of those."

"Jim dropped yours." Vartann pointed to the ruined mess on the ground.

Warrick rolled his eyes and missed the glare sent the detective's way. "I might stretch my legs, go across the street," he said distractedly, glancing at his watch.

"Got a date you're missing out on?" Brass asked, with every bit of sarcasm and dry humor.

"Nah." But there was a deeper meaning to that discouraged answer.

Vartann was still staring at his coffee cup. "How long you think before there's another?"

Brass and Warrick were both caught off guard by the question.

Vartann searched their faces. "It's never just one. There's always a pattern, and with this plan foiled, we're bound to be up against another one."

"It's up to us to find the sonuvabitch and stop him before he can find a new target." The Captain's words were deadly serious.

Before one of them could further contemplate the cold reality, Warrick's cell rang. He hurriedly answered it, walking away on seeing the caller ID. Neither cop dared break the tension as the criminalist stalked back and forth, his questions quiet but his body a mirror of twisted-up insides concealed by a sharp tongue.

Brass tried to occupy his time by returning to the sludge of his pick-me-up, but looked downcast at the drink and poured the rest out. His hands were left to fiddle with the now empty cup, when the conversation ended quickly, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

The two detectives went over to the CSI, when he didn't appear to be coming back to their previous resting place.

Warrick met two worried expressions and plastered on a usual game face, one that had been absent the past few hours. "That was Catherine. Nick came out of surgery all right."

"She called you first?" Vartann asked before realizing it.

"There's more than one number on her speed dial," was the man's reply.

"That's good news." The older man rallied. "They must put something in the water in Texas that makes them so ornery and tough."

The younger man nodded, emotions leaking out of the vice clamp hold. "He's not awake, but he should be in the morning. Cath and Greg are going to the Lab to drop off all the victims' belongings." The worried partner stood without any further words, mind going over every possible bad scenario still possible even after encouraging news.

Jim rolled his neck and got a certain look in his eyes. "We've got plenty of time to visit Nicky tomorrow; let him get his beauty rest and let's nail the bastards that did this."

The desire for vengeance was an ugly little emotion that few ever spoke out loud of but still burned deeply inside each of them. All three men nodded and picked up the torch for another long night and morning of work.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

He dreamed of the zoo. The Dallas Zoo, or as close an approximation of it as a dream gave. He was thirteen and he was thirty-five. He was with his family, then he was alone. No rhyme, no reason, and never does one really ask for it when in the midst of REM. The Bird and Reptile House, always his favorite. The Bird area was loud, filled with hoots and caws and screeches. Stank too, ammonia filling the building from all the guano. But a walk through two massive swinging glass doors and let them close behind you and you were immediately struck by the silence.

He stood in front of the section called Snakes of Texas, but he could see buzz worms any old day on the ranch. Down the corridor and around a bend, past the ancient pair of tortoises, the old married couple that had lived there since the zoo opened and might even be there when it closed. A blink and he was in front of the anaconda's cell. Massive glass wall between him and twenty feet of winding writhing muscle. A hand on the glass passed right through it and he stepped forward, transported to deepest Venezuela, knee deep in murky swamp water. Something heavy passed over his foot but he stood rooted in place, staring down but his eyes unable to penetrate the dark water. Soon the "something heavy" began to wind up his left leg, pulsations of rippling muscle squeezing, crushing.

He could see the anaconda now; dark spots the size of dessert plates alternating with russet scales. Huge green eyes, dark slitted pupils, met his gaze and fixed him with its stare.

More coils began wrapping themselves around his chest, the pressure excruciating as oxygen was expelled from his lungs. He gasped to replace it, but the ever-tightening constriction continued, leaving no room for any breath. He felt his ribs crunching under the crush of cool scaly muscle, the snake's head an inch from his face now, the tongue flickering out, getting its first scent taste of its prey. The jaws opened impossibly wide, a dark pink/black cavern surrounded by hooked teeth. The jaws descended on his head…

And he awoke. His radio alarm clock was going off at his bedside. The rapid beeping was annoying and he could _feel _each pulse of sound lance through his head. He tried to raise a hand to slap the alarm off but his arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and he couldn't find the clock and his arm flailed for where it should be but it Just. Kept. Beeping.

A hand grabbed his arm and his right eye fluttered open, truly awake this time, but the anaconda was still crushing him and he still couldn't breathe and he tried to pull his arm free but the stranger's hand held it fast.

"Mr. Stokes."

The stranger was a female, brown hair and white clothing. His left eye still wouldn't open more than the thinnest of cracks and his right was gummy, leaving everything covered in a fog.

"Mr. Stokes," the voice said a bit more strongly, the grip on his wrist tightening slightly as she forced his hand back down to his bed.

The beeping grew more insistent until a second form entered the room, tall, dark, white coat, massive dark blue head. The form raised a hand and the beeping mercifully stopped.

"Mr. Stokes," the new voice said, male, strangely accented. The form bent over him and the large blue head clarified into a man's head wrapped in a dark blue turban. "Just relax, Mr. Stokes, and we will set you free."

His head was lifted from his pillow and he heard the raspy ripping of Velcro as the device that had been smothering him was removed from his face. He gasped for air, too thin, and too thick, like Everest and the Pacific. A cup was placed over his mouth and he panicked, taking in another breath but this was good- pure, rich with oxygen.

Each breath was delicious agony, the oxygen and rhythm returning to his system, but every inhale like knives in his chest.

"There you are, Mr. Stokes. No more energy wasted fighting the BiPap. Just breathe easy. Nice and slow." Only it came out 'Niiiiiice………aaaaaand……………sloooooooow.' And with a richly accented tone that rounded the vowels. He began matching his breathing to the slower meter of the strange man's voice and he found he could ride out the intermittent agony knowing that each breath in between would bring more of that sweet, sweet oxygen.

"There you go." The voice sounded pleased with himself.

He fixed his one good eye on the man's face and tried to raise a hand to wipe away the gunk, but a sharp pinch and its abnormal heaviness left it stranded on the bed. He started when something crossed his vision from his "bad side" but relaxed as he noticed it was a hand, holding a moistened cloth that wiped his eye gently. When he reopened it he found he could see the man better now. Bright white smile in a sea of dark skin and darker beard. "Thanks, Helen," the man said, addressing the unknown female. "Could you bring me …" and the man turned his head and softened his voice and Nick lost his words as they passed out of range.

"Now, Mr. Stokes. I presume you have some pain issues that need addressing but I need to ask you a few questions first. Do you know your name, sir?"

"S-s-stokes," he croaked out from under the plastic mask.

The man smiled. "Now, that's cheating, Mr. Stokes. What is your given name?"

"Nick. Nich'las."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

He wanted to answer India but something told him to stick closer to home. "Vegas?"

Another smile. "Close enough. You are at Desert Palms Hospital, Mr. Stokes. I am Dr. Singh. Do you remember what happened?"

His last memory was of driving in circles trying to find a parking space. Car accident sounded like a reasonable guess.

"Hit by truck?" he mumbled out. "Big truck?"

The doctor smiled gently. "I'm sure that's how it feels, Mr. Stokes. The female (nurse?) was back in the room now handing the doctor something."

"This should sort you out, Mr. Stokes. Go back to sleep and we'll talk more later."

Moments later he felt what seemed a wave of ice water rushing up the vein in his arm and while the agony was still there, suddenly it didn't seem to bother him that much anymore and he sank back into velvety soft darkness.

* * *

His fork pushed around runny eggs, his toast the color of the scorched walls and floors that had been the center of his universe for the past eight hours. Actually he'd only covered what...four square feet?

Several dozen paint cans, trash bags, baggies filled with ash, melted plastic, chunks of metal, anything that could have been part of the make up of the bomb. In fact, Grissom didn't think he needed to be here, but the rest of his team--they deserved a break, so he sat, and contemplated, his world view the burnt bread, no butter.

"Grissom."

He looked up; the faces of his colleagues stared at him, waiting. "What?"

Catherine shook her head knowingly, wiping up the rest of the syrup from her plate with the soggy remains of a waffle. "Progress on the blast point?"

"Oh, right." No, he'd heard her, but then his mind had gone from laser line to scattered without notice. "The air conditioner. Between what I got out of the owner and the materials not incinerated, I believe that's where the bomb was placed."

"Alex said that it was hot as hell in there and the A/C was on the fritz," Brass chimed in.

All eyes were on the Captain, and Grissom let that wash over his inner thoughts. He should have known that. Memorizing Vartann's field report in detail would be next on his list of things to do. "Then we'll dig in deeper around that radius."

"I'll bring a shovel," Catherine said with a nod, sipping her coffee.

"You want to me to lend a hand?" Greg inquired in between mouthfuls of food, bowing his head sheepishly when Jim snickered and looked away in amusement.

"No, keep helping Warrick sort and catalog what we bring to the staging area. Everything needs to be sifted through, tagged correctly, and prioritized," Grissom responded.

It wasn't what the younger man wanted to hear, but it was what was needed. Accurate organization would save many man hours at the lab.

"All the clothing we got at the ER is on a rush, though Trace said it could be late tomorrow before we get any results," Catherine tried to update, knowing this was just the early, painstaking stage of collection.

As tidbits were discussed in between the only chance they would have for food and rest for at least eight hours, one member of the team remained quiet and Catherine looked at her boss, noticing as usual, he seemed too engrossed by whatever wound through the cogs in his head. She studied Warrick who only ate quietly, stone face and rigid movements his status quo the entire night.

Catherine caught Sara's occasionally worried eyes, appraising their co-workers, but she kept any thoughts to herself. Both women shared a glance, a subtle acknowledgment, and then the female lead looked at her watch.

They had just entered the first hour of a very long double, if not a triple, sparsely punctuated by little more than coffee breaks. She'd have to call home soon.

"Who's going to go back to the hospital?" Greg's lone voice brought all eyes on him, and his utensil froze above a sausage link. "I mean... shouldn't someone go over there?"

"He's not going to be lucid enough to give a statement for a while," Catherine expressed softly, drowning the group in another heavy fog of despair.

"Who said anything about work? Shouldn't one of us go see how he's doing?" Sara's annoyed tone contrasted sharply.

The female lead took slight offense. "I wasn't suggesting that all we want to do is interrogate him."

The younger criminalist slumped in her corner, tone defensive. "He should know someone was there." Sara glanced at her supervisor who seemed more absorbed in his own internal musings than ever.

A fork screeched over ceramic as it clattered down useless. "I'll go."

They were the first real words that Warrick had said and there was little doubt they'd debate over who would go visit their injured friend.

"We're in the middle of a twenty-four hour shift, Warrick," Grissom said softly, breaking his self-imposed silence.

"And I don't care."

It was a set of daring green eyes versus methodical blue.

"His doctor said he wouldn't be awake for a long while. Might as well wait 'til lunch time," Catherine reasoned.

Sara's glass almost fell down with the jolt of vibration as Warrick stood up, no place to really go, but to air out his frustration. "Why did he go back in there?"

No one said anything, making it worse somehow. Grissom saw complex molecular combinations in his head, anything to replace the answer to Warrick's question.

_'You know why I took this job? Honestly? I wanted to pack heat, walk under the yellow tape, be the man...but mostly, because I want you to think I'm a good CSI.'_

'You are,' Grissom thought, then his words were directed at his team. He looked up at Warrick. "He did his job. Now let's do ours."

* * *

The low murmuring of voices roused him from his cocoon of sleep. The air was cool and he grabbed the blanket that rested at his waist and tried tugging it up to cover himself more. The fabric felt weighted down and his weak effort was thwarted as the fabric got caught up and wouldn't move further than a few inches.

He let go of the blanket, then was startled to realize it was moving of its own accord, covering his chest in its warmth. He opened his good eye to see a woman, another nurse probably, this one frosted blonde, smiling at him as she smoothed the sheet down over the edge.

"Blanket just got hung up on some tubing. Is that better?"

He nodded gratefully and began to close his eyes again, yearning for the warmth and safety of his previous sleep. But it wasn't to be. The nurse was raising the head of the bed further and tucking in the pillows that sat on either side of his chest. Then she stuck something in his ear and worst of all, grabbed his eyelid and forced it open, a penlight stabbing at his eye causing it to water.

He grumble moaned at her but she only smiled. "Can't chase me away that easily. Besides, you have a visitor."

"Yeah, c'mon, bro. I had to threaten Ecklie with goin' to the labor board if he didn't gimme a lunch break. I gave up In 'n' Out to come see your ass. Least you could do is gimme a few minutes."

"Rick."

"In the flesh, bro." Warrick walked closer to the bed and knocked his knuckles lightly into Nick's right shoulder, about the only place free of tubing or bandages.

"What happened?" he ground out. He noticed the muffle of the oxygen mask was gone, replaced by an annoying plastic cannula in his nose.

Warrick's eyes narrowed. "You had to play hero is what happened. You don't remember?"

Nick rolled his head briefly on his pillow. "What happened?" he demanded more insistently. " 's anyone else…?"

"Don't be worrying about anyone else, bro. You just take it easy. Everyone from the lab is fine," he added when he saw Nick becoming agitated.

"You know, I didn't believe Cath when she told me how bad you looked. She was wrong. You look worse."

Nick coughed out a laugh, grinding his elbows into his chest through the pillows as pain lanced through his ribs. "Put money on it?" he groaned out with a fair attempt at a smile.

"Only a fin. She's a single mom an' all."

"Good of you… easy on her."

The pain in his chest was getting worse and what was scarier was the new agony making itself known in other parts of his battered body. His left eye was still dark, only a sliver of light passing through what must have been swollen lids and his head above his eye throbbed in time with his increasing pulse. The whole left side of his body felt like he'd been beaten with a baseball bat and his left knee especially began crying out for attention.

His breathing quickened, learning that each gasp increased the pain, making him take shallow sips of air, but not enough which meant the next one had to be faster.

The nurse was back, switching out the cannula for the mask from somewhere behind him. The oxygen stopped the grey spots that had been forming in his lone eye's vision but the pain was still there and getting worse.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through it. He heard Warrick's voice, more sober now but still with a hint of his natural humor.

"My lunch break's over, bro, but I think they have your order up. Somethin' to make you feel better, okay?"

Nick nodded shortly, too consumed with riding the next wave of pain.

The ice water was back and he sank beneath it.

* * *

"A penny for your thoughts?"

Greg looked up at a hazy outline, sun splotches that danced around until Sara's body matched her voice. He rubbed the inside of his hand over sore eyes but didn't attempt to move from the soft spot of ground. "Just thinkin'," he shrugged.

Sara pulled up some lawn, part of a parking lot barrier in the back, away from the endless tedious work, the crowds of curious still far enough back but enough of a presence to be a nuisance. "Be careful; too much of that and you'll forget how to walk."

The younger man didn't follow up with a catchy comeback, all trace of zaniness or pizzazz gone.

Instead he tugged at his coveralls and wriggled around like he did when dressed for court. "They never make these the right size."

"That's why I have mine tailored to fit."

He stared at her, then cracked a smile when he realized how easily she led him into that one. Greg allowed the laughter to go from his belly through the rest of him. Then the many hours of studious work in endless silence brought the tension right back.

"Warrick came back just a little while ago?" Sara watched more yellow tape get streamed into an alley that ran beside the building as the scene expanded.

"I covered for him during lunch. I was supposed to go grab a bite somewhere, but haven't felt the urge to cross the street."

She finally gazed at him, riding the sound of weariness. "Yeah, we're alternating breaks too, so there's no stoppage in work."

Greg merely nodded.

It couldn't wait any longer, despite not thinking about it while searching for tweezer sized evidence. Out here, in the real world, she needed to know. "How's Nick? Warrick never came over to inform the rest of us."

"He was probably trying to avoid Ecklie," the other criminalist replied. Then rolled his neck a few times, his hair even more discombobulated. "I dunno, I heard he was mainly asleep or somethin'."

"Did he say anything?"

He was being selfish, knowing that all Sara wanted was some kind of update. "He didn't remember the explosion, but Warrick said he was really out of it. As soon as he was awake, the pain was too much and they had to snow him under again."

His words were not comforting and but the tone was even more worrisome. Sara pulled lazy hair out of her face and really studied the blank expression of the youngest team member. "He's alive, that's the most important thing." She paused. "You okay, Greg?"

He could never hold the same kind of poker face as his co-workers, not sure how to ever master that aspect of the job. "I guess...it's just, spooky." He grimaced and choose his next words more carefully. "I mean... I've been trying to get out into the field more than ever. Away from DNA and test tubes. Into the nitty-gritty with the rest of you guys."

Sara didn't say anything, just let him unload.

"I mean there's risk out in the field, I know that. Still trying to wrap my head around wearing a piece like some of you. But this?" Greg waved around them. "He got blown up going to 'another' job?" His brow furrowed and he let out a tight laugh. "Here I thought we only worried about explosions at the lab."

His trademark smile was his best effort and even Greg knew it was pretty lame.

Sara grabbed his knee and patted it, then sighed when the gesture came across as rather patronizing. "Wrong place, wrong time and it happens. Plus… Nick went back in, he was following those instincts."

"He watches too much television," Greg blurted out. "I mean he was playing chicken with a ticking bomb."

"I don't think he thought of it as a game."

Greg knew he was being unfair. "I know... you didn't see him in the ER. I mean, it wasn't supposed to be one of 'us' on that stretcher, and the way he couldn't breathe right..." He mashed a hand down on hair sticky with gel. "The whole time I watched him being worked on all I could think about was that I hoped the flames didn't get him."

She didn't know what to say; consoling wasn't a skill she needed very often. It was always about hanging a suspect, or putting the puzzle together faster than anyone. Sara didn't go for any more pats; she grabbed his hand instead. "We can't fight our past, but it always finds a path right back to our door. It's about trying to deal with the experience when you least expect it. It's okay to look for support."

"Do you?" he asked, and watched her bite her tongue.

"I'm improving." She smiled.

"When are you going to see him?" he asked, changing the subject.

Sara looked off in the distance. "When I can. I know that the best way to show my support is to track down the SOB and nail him."

"Not to mention sleep, considering we have God only knows how many doubles ahead, and Emperor Ecklie cracking his whip."

"You want me to go with you?" she asked knowing that it might help them both.

He nodded, recognizing the gesture. "I know Brass plans on going back in a while, see if Nick is up to any kind of statement."

"Maybe tomorrow then," Sara suggested.

"That'd be great." He watched her stand, twist her back and get ready to dig in some more. "You know sometimes I wish Nick wasn't so..."

"Greg." She interrupted his search for the right word.

"Yeah."

"We wouldn't want him any other way," and left him to muse the pros and cons, knowing once again she was right.

* * *

'"Where've ya been?"

The small dark room was hazy with at least a pack's worth of smoke. He could barely make out the form of his brother in the corner easy chair. A sudden flash, bright blue lit Kevin's face from the TV in front of him.

"Told ya. Picked up a shift at work."

"I called. Talked to that stupid chink. He tol' me you weren't on tonight."

"I've told ya before, Kevin. Tran's Vietnamese. And he just dinna see me. I was workin' delivery instead of the kitchen."

His brother seemed to at least temporarily buy the deception and nodded in acceptance.

"You, uh… hear about the bombing last night?"

His brother had always had trouble reading peoples cues, interacting at anything more than the basest of levels. Grunts of assent. Scowls of disagreement. And most importantly, he'd never been one to hide the emotions on his Black Irish face. If something made him happy, the dark-haired man had a grin that was bright and infectious enough to get a whole pub full of drunken sods laughing 'til their guts burst. If something pissed him off, there were no attempts made to hide the anger, and fists would flash out and Lord help ya if you were in the way. There was no artifice, no attempt made to mask what was going on in his head.

It was odd, seeing his brother struggle with an approximation of feigned nonchalance.

"No. What, somethin' back home?"

"Nope. Right here in the good old U S of A. Here in Vegas, in fact. Bomb took out that fruity English pub in the Hills."

"That the one we heard about on the news t'other night? They were gonna have the Manchester-Liverpool footie match."

"Aye, that's the one. Nothing left of it but smolderin' splinters." The big wide smile on his brother's face made him sick to his stomach.

"Whatsa matter, Mikey? I'd think you'd be cheerin'. Sayin' 'ta' to the man what did it. Ya shoulda seen it, Mikey. Looked just like the Proddy meetin' house you and the boys took out in Belfast."

He sighed and shook his head. Settled himself into the other rattier chair, his head laid back as he stared at the water-stained ceiling.

"Told ya, Kevin. Those days are done and gone. The whole point of us comin' here was ta put that shite behind. To close that feckin' book and move on."

"Mikey, you were a somebody back home. A Sinn Fein lieutenant. You and the boys were feckin' brilliant! All those bombs and none of ya never got pinched. Ahh, like a well feckin' oiled machine you and the lads were. Kept the Unionists hoppin, ya did."

"Kev, you've no idea what it's like ta have that kinda blood on yer hands. 'ts all well an good to sit in the pub and sing songs o' rebellion but the truth is that ya never get over knowin' ya took life. Lives, Kevin. Feckin' kids, and mas and das. For every Unionist soldier we took out a family lost a husband, a son, or a father."

"Good!" Kev leapt from his chair, pushing aside the flimsy tray table, knocking over the overfilled ashtray spilling generic brand butts and ash onto the ratty carpet.

"Maybe if they lose a da or a son then that'll be one less Unionist scum ta worry about!"

"Yeah, Kev? Or they can send in more soldiers to stand on the necks of the Republicans and there can be more bloodshed and kids can keep playin' in the streets o' Belfast wonderin' when they leave their house if that's the day they're gonna catch a bullet or if the bus is gonna blow up on the way ta school. Fuck! I'm tired of havin' this conversation with ya! You were too young to know what it was really like, Kev! You've filled your head with this romantic feckin' idea that we were righteous. We killed people, Kev! Lotsa them! And I hafta live with that every day. Get your head outa your arse and stop livin' in the past. I'm goin' to bed. You should too."

Kevin had settled himself back down, righting the tray table and replacing the empty ashtray on it. He pulled a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket and lit one up.

"You go ta bed. I'm gonna watch some TV." But Michael noticed his little brother didn't pick up the TV remote—he picked up the controller for the VCR. The image on the screen smeared into a myriad of colors, then righted itself to show a news report from the bomb site. Kevin's eyes glazed over as he settled back into his chair.

As he walked away, Michael noticed that Kevin was mouthing the words along with the report. He'd watched it enough times to memorize the reporter's spiel.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

The hands were back. Probably not the same hands all day, but hands nonetheless. Hands poking, prodding, tucking, soothing, manipulating, tugging, and monitoring. Hands sticking him with needles, hands wielding annoying penlights, and now hands grabbing the sheet underneath him and lifting him free of his bed.

Thanks to whatever he was getting stuck with he didn't really give a good god damn most of the time.

He sometimes tried to put a face or a name to the hands, but there were so many of them, enveloped in white fog, their features obscured. Best he could sometimes make out was light or dark, blonde or darker haired. Sometimes male or female if the clothing they wore gave him a clue. Most were formless bodies in various colored scrubs or white uniforms and coats.

This time the forms wore pine green. First time he remembered seeing that color.

Now air was rushing past his face, chilling him under the sheet laid on top of him. He floated past more people-shaped blobs, voices Dopplering in and out as he caught snippets of conversation. Someone was crying. Someone was yelling.

Then he was being lifted again, onto not a bed but a flat surface. Rock hard, cold, unyielding. Something heavy was draped over his midsection, like a weighted blanket, but no warmth or comfort came from it. He groaned and looked around for someone to explain what was happening but the room was empty. Cold tile and silence. Like the morgue. The sound of something mechanical began to hum overhead. He lifted his head, trying to find the sound's origin when a bodiless voice floated in from somewhere in the room.

"Mr. Stokes, just relax. You need to lay still."

He moaned the best response he could, but the mask was back, muffling his attempt. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

The owner of the voice must have been omniscient because the next words he heard were, "You're in X-Ray, Mr. Stokes. You need to lay still."

He nodded, relieved, settled back down and closed his eyes while the camera overhead continued to clank and whirr.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the lights were flashing by him overhead, and the chilly wind was back, and the pine green scrubs-owning hands were back.

He felt his transport stop, then the sheet under him was lifting, all four corners at once and he felt himself dragged back onto a softer surface. Pillow under his head, pillow under his leg, and pillows back under his arms to cradle his chest. Best of all, the blanket was back. God, he couldn't remember ever being this cold before.

One of the pine green scrubs bent down close enough for her face to swim into view. Older woman, tightly shorn cap of iron gray hair and a kindly face.

"Sorry, about that, Mr. Stokes. Didn't think you were with us, otherwise I woulda told you what was going on."

She removed his mask and replaced it with the cannula, then raised the head of the bed a few more degrees.

"Dinner trays are coming around. You want anything? Think you're up to the challenge of Jell-O?"

His stomach was a raw and empty pit, but there was an undercurrent of nausea there as well. She must have been the omniscient one in X-Ray because she smiled and told him, "Your stomach's probably a bit rough from the anesthesia. Putting something in it might make it a little better."

He nodded, then croaked out, "Anything but lime."

"No green stuff. Gotcha." She leaned a bit closer, under pretense of fussing with his oxygen, and murmured in his ear, "You have a visitor. Feeling up to it, or you want me to tell him to come back later? He was waiting for us to get you settled back in."

"I'm good. Thanks," he said and mustered up a smile. He was torn between seeing what he hoped was a friendly face and possibly getting some answers, and the siren call of his exhaustion and painkillers wooing him back to sleep. Curiosity won out.

He aimed his face in the general direction of the rest of the room. A pink face atop a dull brown suit could only mean one person.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, kid." Brass moved closer to the bed.

"Sorry. Workin' with one eye. And it's not working so good."

"Yeah, I see that. How ya feelin'?"

"Like I hit the wall at Talladega."

Jim snorted. "Probably woulda come out looking better than this."

"No one'll tell me what happened."

He heard the sound of heavy furniture being dragged. Jim moving the padded wooden patient chair over.

"Sorry for sitting. I'm getting too old for these 24 hour shifts." The detective sighed. "Why don't we start with what you remember. I'll uh …fill in some of the blanks for you. How's that sound?"

"'S mostly blanks. Was at a scene. Parking lot. Rest'rnt I think. Bar?" He found even short bursts of speech tiring and he took a long deep pull from the oxygen at his nose, wincing at the pain in his chest.

"Place was called The George. British pub. You were there with Vartann."

"Yeah. I 'member Alex. Couldn't breathe. He was there. I was...on pavement?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you were one with the asphalt, kid."

"What happened?" He was getting tired of being kept in the dark, almost literally, and he hoped his words conveyed how pissed off he was getting since the effort earned him stabbing pain in his side. He dug an elbow into his ribs through the pillow and tried to roll over but he didn't have the strength plus he was tethered to so many tubes and wires.

Jim wriggled uncomfortably in his chair for a bit, then stood so he could put himself in Nick's line of sight. Nick sighed as his cherubic face came into focus.

"Thanks. Gettin' tired of talkin' to blobs."

"Your uh, left eye has a shiner is all. Swelling should go down in a couple days. So. You wanted to know what happened. Problem is, Nick, is we were kinda counting on you to help with that. Your doc says it's a concussion. And the anesthesia from your surgery, keeping you from remembering everything just yet. Why don't I lay down the groundwork and we'll see how it goes from there?"

"Worried 'bout leadin' me?"

"Always were a quick one, Nicky. Good to see your instincts are still intact. Yeah. If I tell you too much, it taints your story. So you bring what you can, _when _you can, to the table. No hurry, and no worry, okay?"

Nick nodded, tamping down his frustration at his inability to remember. Although he hadn't at first remembered Vartann being there. So maybe there was hope yet. He eased back further into the pillows and listened to the older man's Jersey-tinged voice.

"You and Vartann were at the scene of a double homicide. Place was packed with people."

"Drunks."

"Oh, yeah. Lotsa them. You guys and a buncha uniforms were trying to clear the place. Alex said you had gotten almost everyone out. Then you yelled something about a bomb and ran back into the building."

Brass stopped talking and Nick ran the words through the pea soup that was standing in for his brain at the moment. He rolled his head lightly on the pillow. "Don't remember. Sorry."

"It's okay. Alex said you got the group out but the bomb went off before you could get clear of the blast. Hence, your impromptu and ill advised meeting with the blacktop."

"Everyone okay?"

He saw Jim's head shake but he answered, "Yeah, yeah everyone's okay. It's just too bad your ribs aren't as hard as your head."

Nick chuckled painfully. "Nothin's hard as a Stokes' head." He stopped to drag some more oxygen into his system, trying to ignore a dry tickle at the back of his throat. If he coughed… He tried clearing his throat and the tickle grew to an itch. He tried talking it out.

"How long?"

Jim pulled his sleeve back and checked his battered old Timex. "Going on eighteen hours ago. It's dinnertime now, of the next day."

"Couldn't tell if it was hours or days."

"Yeah, well, you've been pretty snowed under. Speaking of, maybe I oughta let you get some rest, huh?"

"Got dinner comin'. Jell-O, I think."

"Living high on the hog, huh, Nicky?"

"Oh, yeah. Room service an ev'rythn'. They leave any water?"

"Sure, hang on."

Nick closed his eyes, listening to the sound of water streaming into something plastic.

"You want me to…?"

"Yeah. No. I--" His hand lifted shakily from the blanket. Cool plastic met his palm, the older man keeping a guiding hold on it until he managed to feel the tip of the straw touch his lips. He drew in the tepid water, but found it was like trying to moisten the Mojave with a Dixie Cup. The water was soon gone, his mouth and throat as dry and scratchy as if he'd never bothered.

He realized his error only seconds later as the water now sat cold and heavy in his stomach. Sloshing. Like bilge in the bottom of an empty oil tanker. He shifted with discomfort in the bed. Which jarred his leg and ribs. The twin beacons of agony beaming from those parts of his body started the war drums to beating in his head. Which made him more nauseous.

He dropped the empty cup on the blanket as he took in gulps of air, trying to swallow back the rising tide of his stomach contents. The swallowed air just added to his queasiness.

If he thought coughing was going to be bad, puking would be exponentially worse. He found himself trying to sit up in the bed, his moans turning to groans as his ribs grated. Both arms around himself now as if he was about to fly apart, and damned if that's not exactly how he felt, like it was only the feeble strength left in his arms keeping his ribs in place.

He sensed movement nearby but was too consumed with his efforts to _not _vomit to pay it much mind. He heard Jim's voice somewhere under the ocean in a seashell sound in his head.

Soon the faceless hands were back, raising the head of the bed to support him better. His cannula was removed and the hands tried replacing the oxygen mask, but he knew what was coming, despite his best efforts. He could feel his mouth filling with saliva, the only warning he was going to get. His arm flew up abruptly to fend off the plastic mask as he retched once, then a second time as the water came up along with the acidic burn of bile. Eating away at his already raw esophagus. A third time, this a dry heave, nothing left in his empty stomach to expel and then he collapsed back against the bed, the feeling of hot liquid soaking through his bedclothes onto his lap.

His mouth was wiped with a Kleenex, then the oxygen mask replaced. The pain was all consuming, fire in his chest and pressure in his head. He heard voices snapping out instructions; the monitor began beeping, adding to the hammering in his skull.

He heard the metallic ringing of the privacy curtain being pulled, his bedclothes lifted free leaving his body icy cold and exposed, the only heat in his chest and gut.

Then, finally, the hoped for tug on the IV in his hand and a dry sheet and blanket laid over him and he plummeted back over the edge into darkness.

* * *

"Mr. Stokes?"

He didn't want to open his eyes; his last waning memory was of talking with Brass, a whirlwind of pain and a blur of faces as the result of drinking a small cup of water. His gut tightened at the memory and he wanted to roll over and curl up on his side and just wait it out. Wait it all fucking out, until everything was fixed and he was no longer feeling this way.

"We're going to give you an epidural to help manage the pain. Mr. Stokes, I just need you to nod your head if you understand."

His mind got hung up on that word. Ep-i-dur-al.

"L-like with a baby?" His voice croaked, vision swam, right view of the world see- sawing, the left still a thin sliver of light.

Someone laughed. There was more than one person in his room. He squinted the best he could and made out two fuzzy faces. The mask was back on, covering his face, muffling his slow thick words. He wished they'd make up their minds; the tubes up his nostrils, or the sweet stream of oxygen from the mask.

His head was so heavy, and it turned towards the sound.

"Yes, it's the same thing we give mothers in labor. Dr. Jeffries is an anesthesiologist and he's going to insert a needle into your spinal cord. The catheter will give you steady pain relief. Dr Singh wants you off of traditional pain meds. We don't want to depress your respiratory system any more than it is."

Nick blinked and a black man in a white coat came into focus next to a heavy-set brunette smiling so sweetly at him. She waited for him to respond. "Needle…in my spine?"

The doctor leaned in closer to him. "It'll block the nerve endings so you don't feel pain every time you breathe. Numb you up like Novocain."

He wondered if it'd stop the pounding in his skull. Felt like a guy drilling his way out from the inside every time he was awake, the vibrations pulling him out of the constant haze he'd been under. Jackhammer right between the eyes.

He nodded. If it meant he could fall back asleep he'd say yes to anything.

The head of the bed was raised vertical and he was seated completely upright for the first time since he'd been admitted. The pressure on his ribs was excruciating and his arms immediately tried to wrap around himself. The oximeter fell off his finger and the IV tugged but he just wanted to hold on to himself for dear life.

The nurse sat down on the bed next to him, patting herself on both shoulders. "C'mon. Hold on to me."

He reluctantly let go and placed his hands where she'd gestured, leaning heavily against her for fear of falling face forward. The doctor moved behind him with equipment he'd just as soon not see anyway. He felt the cold swab of what smelled like more iodine, then a horrific pinch followed by pain like a hot poker being stuck in his back. And just like that he had yet another tube in him. He had no idea that it wasn't the end of anything. Just numbing him so he could endure new torture.

Which included the sadistic coughing sessions.

* * *

"Breathe in."

His ribcage expanded like a balloon filled with air, pushing out from his chest cavity. He could barely take in a long enough breath before needle pricks assaulted him, letting a groan escape despite his best efforts.

"Okay, breathe out."

The exit of oxygen felt slightly different, ribcage contracting as he braced a pillow against his left side to compensate.

A woman who looked way too young for the job, with sandy waves of short hair and freckles from too much time in the sun, blew warmly on the end of her stethoscope. She placed it on his chest, asking him to repeat the exercise, her other hand behind his shoulder to help him sit up as much as possible.

Each time he was asked to 'hold it'. Every time it burned and ached more.

"One more time, Mr. Stokes. You're doing really good."

Nick did as asked and suddenly the world went topsy-turvy, his body falling forward. The respiratory therapist caught him, gently laying him back against the bed.

His ragged breathing somehow even more shallow, and he hugged himself in a tight embrace. He coughed and, man, that ripped through him, too.

"Take it easy, Mr. Stokes. Is your pain level all right? You need me to get the nurse?"

"I'm sure one will be around... soon enough," Nick answered, trying to find a more comfortable position without success.

He looked at her through his good eye. "I'm sorry... um..." he fumbled for her name, already lost in the noise of someone hopping on a pogo stick inside his head.

"It's Lisa, and no need for apologies. I'm here to see how your left lung is healing and I'm afraid that usually means I have to make you do things you don't want to." She pulled at the sheet to cover him back up. "I'm going to lower the bed back, but starting tomorrow, we're going to see if you can manage sitting up for longer periods of time."

He faded away slightly while she rummaged through a cart next to his bed. He had woken up after having the epidural inserted to a lower body free of pain, limbs numb, except for the slightest tingle. No more pulsations of fire up his leg, blossoming in his knee. His sore and ravaged left side was dull, but once his nerve endings went further up, it was like the rest of him didn't have the 'off switch' flipped.

"Now Mr. Stokes, have you ever used a nebulizer?" The respiratory therapist held a small portable device with a mouthpiece up for him to see.

Sing-song voice, so cheery to the point of nauseating. Yep, that too, the sourness of his stomach was back, only second to the throbbing in his skull and he blanked again because Sweet Song Lisa asked him another question.

"I-- haven't had anything to drink tonight." Nick laughed at his little joke. He conjured up a weak smile, not sure where that bit of humor came from, maybe mixed signals from his scrambled brain.

"I need you to breathe in this medication for about ten minutes. It's a nice vapor so it won't hurt to inhale it." She reminded him of a female Greg, so eager and ready to do her job, her youthful appearance something to try to compensate for.

He obligingly sucked on the mouthpiece, the mist making him feel heavy, eyes droopy.

There was sweet young Lisa telling him more about steroids and how he'll be using this every four hours. After having the inside of his lungs filled with something akin to vapor rub he was helped up again so she could listen to his chest. The heavy smell of the medication lingered inside his nasal passages. It made his uneasy belly flip-flop some more, which only exacerbated the dizziness caused by his constant pounding headache. He groaned, not wanting a repeat performance from earlier.

All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but that was before another nurse entered the room for a vitals check, followed by the sound of the screeching wheels of a portable chest x-ray machine. All he could do was count his blessings that he had been spared the ordeal of going to Radiology again.

* * *

He was on a backboard, his goggles smeared with oil from a leak under the chassis. Damn drug runners. If not exhaust pipes, it was custom made compartments behind an axle. Nick pushed with his heel, rolled himself to the left, flashlight beam bobbing under heated metal.

"Why can't they just slip them into a muffler?" he complained.

There was a tight nut and he muscled at the worn threads of the bolt, damn thing turning uselessly. He cursed under his breath. "Hey, Warrick, can ya hand me that number nine wrench?"

Silence greeted him, and he was sick of breathing in toxic rust particles. "Rick?'

Annoyed, Nick jutted with his boot to slide back out, but his foot slipped and somehow knocked over the jack, tons of steel crashing down on top of him, pinning his body to the garage floor.

He screamed for help, his chest caved in by the undercarriage and no matter how hard he yelled, he couldn't breathe.

The beeping sound of one of the machines filled his ears and he gasped terribly despite renewed flares of pain lancing across his chest.

"Breathe deeply, Mr. Stokes. We turned up the O2 flow, and all you have to do is relax."

The cadence was smooth; calm, but direct.

"Just in and out. In and out."

The pillows didn't do much to alleviate the daggers in his left side. He tried to follow the soft command and went to move his body into a better position. When nothing happened, the nice and slow became more complicated.

"Mr. Stokes. If you don't talk to me, I don't know what's wrong."

"M-my legs." He managed to open his eyes, right side of the room barely focused, his swollen left still not doing its part.

The nurse stared at a readout next to the side of his head, the cascade of air to his nose and mouth strong and constant. She looked back at him, and the hospital worker seemed familiar, but he didn't know her name. He'd been forgetting those a lot lately.

"What about your legs?" Blue eyes searched his face, checked the BP cuff that inflated every fifteen minutes around his arm.

"They're asleep. Can't move em'."

"Okay. And your pain? How would you rate it?"

His chest rose and fell evenly now, the war drum inside his head back. "A five?" The seasickness of rocking on a boat was back with his awareness. He tired to rub at the stubble on his face and found his movements didn't quite work right. "You're Lisa?"

The nurse scribbled onto a clipboard, long blond hair swept back into a ponytail. "No, I'm Meredith. Do you know your name?"

"Yeah." He swallowed, his throat scratchy. "Not that far gone yet."

"And?"

He smiled. "It's Nick Stokes, but…please call me Nick."

"Okay, Nick. The epidural is a great remedy for your legs, back, and abdomen, which covers most of your injuries. However, some of your rib fractures are higher up on your chest, and sometimes it's not as effective. So, I need you tell me when you're hurting so we can adjust the dosage and make you more comfortable."

"Oh." He zoned out again, but did manage to look at her. "My head hurts," he allowed. "Stomach's off, too."

"Dr Singh will be coming by on his rounds and talk to you about that. It's your concussion making your head hurt and I can give you some Tylenol for it, but not much else. Right now we have to be cautious about any narcotics depressing your lung capacity as well as more side effects from your head injury. But I can give you something for your nausea, okay?"

The sound of pen on paper kept him on the edge of awake, then the nurse checked his IV. "You have a pair of visitors. They decided to wait outside when I came in here. You up for that, or would you like me to tell them to come back?"

He tried to wiggle his toes again with no luck. With a groan he squinted at her, "Yeah, it's fine."

"I'm going to stay for a little while, monitor how you're doing for the first part, all right?"

He couldn't readjust his sore body and settled for nodding his head. "Fine." He was tired of answering questions. It made him hurt too much.

Maybe his friends could distract him a little.

* * *

Sara was prepared for anything. Between Warrick's vague description of barely lucid conversation, and Brass's interview forcibly cut short, she knew not to expect much and that her friend's health was still very fragile. Someone at the scene had put a marker where every person was after the explosion. From the destroyed doors to where Nick had been found, it was a very visible, cruel reminder how far he'd been thrown.

Despite seeing the deep ugly blacks and blues of bruises in competition with the reds and pinks of raw skin, she plastered on a nice neutral expression. Greg's face jumped from one emotion to another with the same frequency as his rocking from one leg to another like he had ants in his pants.

"Would' ya stop bein' such a spaz, please, Greg," Sara hissed.

Even Nick noticed which made Sara punch the younger man lightly in the arm to calm him.

Nick rubbed at his right eye, trying to combat the ice pick stabbing back behind it. When he opened it, the nervous rookie had his hands clamped behind his back in effort to remain motionless.

"Thanks, G. Makin' me dizzy," he mumbled.

"Guess the magazines I brought are kind of moot," Greg realized sheepishly.

"Yeah, but leave em'. I know I'll need something in a couple days." Nick eyed the nurse who kept to the background for the most part. It was kind of unnerving, but then again it was sorta like his job interpreting evidence; she needed a way to observe his behavior.

He must have passed muster because she ducked away after a few more minutes of small talk. Nick cleared his throat, "How's the case goin'?"

Sara smiled. "Don't worry about that. You can't do anything from here." She warned Greg with her eyes to follow her lead.

"You guys just goin' home?"

Sara's grin faltered. "No, we're going in early for the start of another double."

He frowned, face screwed up in confusion, left arm fumbling to wrap around his side as he coughed a little. "What time is it?"

"Its four in the afternoon, shift starts at six," Greg answered. He shifted his weight to his tiptoes, then back on his heels. "We came here early enough to chat and grab food before another day at the races."

Nick shifted. While most of his body was silly kind of numb, it was disconcerting enough to fidget, and the vibration enough to grind at those receptors that could still feel pain. "It's been another whole day already?"

Sara rubbed his bare right shoulder. "Time gets lost in a place with no clocks. But, yeah the blast was night before last."

His nurse entered and Sara moved out of the way as she injected something in his IV.

"This is to calm your stomach. Maybe we'll try you on that Jell-O later on tonight. See if you can tolerate it."

Nick's right hand rubbed at his middle and Sara felt terrible at the thought their visit was keeping him from decent rest. Before she could suggest they leave, her beeper vibrated at her hip as cell phones were off limits in the ICU. She saw the type of code and looked back at Greg staring at her anxiously. "It's Catherine, let me see what's going on."

She hurried out of ICU into a wing free of restrictions and her finger hit speed dial.

Catherine's tight voice answered on the second ring. "_Hey, where are you?"_

Her hand gripped the phone tighter. "I'm with Greg. We're visiting Nick."

"_Good, then I can kill two birds with one stone. You need to get over to 1851 Industrial Ave."_

"That the new office complex? One with the man made lake?" Sara paced while she spoke.

"_Yeah. We've got another bombing. Casualties unknown."_

Her blood ran cold. "Jesus."

"_You and Greg meet us over there."_

"Okay, I need to tell Greg, he's still in with Nick."

"_Okay and Sara, don't tell him. I think all Nick needs to focus on is getting better." _Catherine's voice held an edge not meant to be argued with.

She rubbed at her face. "Yeah, he'd drive himself crazy. I'll see you as soon as I can."

Sara made her way back up the hall and quietly entered the cubicle where Greg was trying to get info on Nick's respiratory therapist. _Men_, she thought.

She went over to Nick's good side, wary of the tubes and any section that wasn't bandaged or braced by something. "We've got to go, but I'm sure one of us will come back by... later."

Nick looked at her with one fuzzy eye; half his poor face resembled a prizefighter's. He didn't acknowledge her ploy and she idly wondered if he was still too shaky to notice it. "Okay."

Greg made his goodbye, patting Nick's right shoulder and she leaned in to give him a kiss on his cheek. "Sleep well."

Sara guided Greg out, her grip on his bicep a bit too tight. The other criminalist didn't seem to buy her excuse, but she didn't say anything till they were outside those sterile walls, away from the smells of sickness. She had to get outside, breathe in clean air, and appreciate the effortlessness of drawing oxygen into her lungs without pain. Most of all she needed to redirect and focus.

It was escalating, faster than any of them had ever feared.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

"Sit down." It wasn't an invitation, but an order. 

Gil Grissom cocked his head in a way that annoyed him, so flippant to his authority. He didn't have time to tiptoe around any issues.

"I want a progress report on the second bombing and any connections you've made to the one at The George." Ecklie's cell beeped at him; he stared at the caller ID then flipped the phone off.

When he looked back up his Graveyard shift supervisor had not done him the courtesy of taking the offered chair. He had an expression plastered on his face that reminded him of the smart ass punks who acted impervious to discipline at the school principal's office. Conrad was privy to these challenges since he had been an aide, thus earning him all sorts of extra dork points in school. It had suited him fine back then, but now he knew exactly the exasperation that the head of his high school felt when dealing with the those who deemed themselves too important.

He stared, waiting.

"We don't know if the two are even connected." Grissom shrugged his shoulders and it irked Conrad for so many reasons.

"Two bombings within two days. There _has_ to be a connection. What has your team come up with?" The hand gesture and slight sneer was habit.

He expected a glint reflected in his co-worker's eyes, but Grissom was steadfastly cool. No indication he'd spent the past four days in non stop processing, with barely three hours of sleep a night, expelling coffee fumes from his pores. The Assistant Director on the other hand dreamed of phone calls and beepers going off waking him up at all hours.

"We were still combing through the first site. So far the only thing recoverable has been some tape residue. Probably from whatever was used to secure the device together."

Ecklie leaned forward. "That's news right there, Gil," he complained, annoyed. "Means we're talking homemade, not professional."

"We haven't found the trigger yet, and the casing seems to have been made from common parts. We don't have anything to trace tool marks on…"

"It's been four days. You don't have anything---"

"This could take weeks, maybe even months before--"

A hand slammed on his desk hard enough to rattle the objects and silence each man's interruptions. "We don't have weeks. Three more people died, and the mounting body count has the feds and homeland breathing down my neck. Hell, the ATF guys are practically giving me a prostate exam every time I leave this office. Could you at least be more open with the exchange of information with them? Our entities are working together on this. So far, you're on equal ground."

Showing a card or two about how much heat he'd kept away from the Lab was enough and for once his colleague looked at him with an ounce of consideration.

"Union Jack's Brewing Company just got the go ahead to open another plant in the Vegas area. The increased popularity of their wheat beers and ale has skyrocketed. They won top prize at last year's Oktoberfest. The explosion occurred towards the vats closest to the center."

He nodded, the news old, but at least Grissom was being informative.

The graveyard supervisor placed his hand on the top of the chair , his tone as if giving a lecture and not sharing information. "We were lucky; the factory was not up and operating during two weeks of downtime. Only a skeleton crew cleaning the large containers was killed."

"Same kind of blast, right? We're talking about the same type of denotation?" the AD urged, his beeper vibrating now. He ducked down to see the Director's number, the same one he had ignored a few moments ago. Ecklie rubbed at his temples. The heat was scorching and the only way to put out the fire was with answers, details... theories.

"Same kind of radius."

The supervisor's cell phone rang and he looked down at it, arching an eyebrow and thusly ignoring it. "The security at the plant was minimum. The cleaning crew was outside contractors, granted access in and out, with barely any scrutiny, not even a key card. Our suspect could have simply donned the same kind of colored shirt and suited up. In and out, with no one the wiser."

"Security cameras?" Ecklie probed.

"In the offices, nothing on the factory floor." The older man showed signs of being human, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're still checking the entrance and parking lots' film to see if we can catch a glance. Got Archie on it."

"So, you're telling me we have nothing. No shred of evidence to either bombing, no connection and no theories. What about alcohol? First a pub, now a brewery. Our bomber may have a grudge against the distributor, or work somewhere in the stages of manufacturing."

The other man shook his head. "We're running down different scenarios. Once we catch up on the first bombing, then we can get an edge on this one. Everyone's on board, every lab tech, rookie, all my guys pulling doubles."

Someone knocked at the door, a young petite red head poked her face in. "Not now, Anna!"

"But you have a call from Sheriff--"

"Hold all my calls until I'm out of my meeting," Ecklie snapped and his secretary scattered away at his roar. He sighed heavily. "I've got to feed the news hounds with something before they start digging around and creating their own theories," he barked.

"I can't think about motivations when I'm still sifting through mountains of debris."

"And I can't keep the mayor off my back with nothing. I need something to run with. Anything, Gil."

The two men stared at the other, no common ground. Nothing to agree upon.

The grim set of his jaw would become a permanent part of his face very soon. "Officer Taylor's memorial service is tomorrow. Plus, I have to listen to the Sheriff's bitching about the next set of funerals. More photo ops for the press. "

"Maybe you could suggest to them they cut down costs by covering just one," Grissom suggested, somehow managing a straight face.

He shuffled the mounds of paperwork around until he found the file he searched for, the last comment stored away for another time. Grissom began to let himself out but the man had not been excused. "One more thing..."

His eyes looked up as the entomologist halted, froze, then turned around with a great deal of restraint. Conrad acted like he hadn't noticed the drama. "I have a few questions concerning Stokes' records."

Grissom cocked his head, his face half annoyance, half curiosity.

"What questions?"

Ecklie pursed his lips. "For starters, he was a Level CSI three for nine months and during that time period's evaluation you stated he wasn't ready for solo work." He leaned back in his chair. "Any reason why?"

"He just wasn't."

Ecklie stifled a laugh. "Yeah, your reasons on this form are just as vague. Care to elaborate now?'

"No." Grissom's posture cast no doubt considered this the end to the discussion.

"And..." he fingered through his files, Grissom peering closer as he rifled. "It took another year before he was deemed to go out on his own. Again, the reason?"

"Why are you going through Nick's file?"

He traced his finger down printed words and flipped the folder closed, just as he saw the other man's shadow cross it. "Just checking some things out."

Ecklie knew how to be as cryptic, just not petty enough to smile.

He saw a fire behind blue eyes and opened his drawer to shove the folder away. "And how many outstandings did he get recently?"

"Enough."

The supervisor's cell beeped again, but felt obligated to engage in a staredown competition instead. Ecklie shuffled files to dismiss him. When the man didn't leave he fiddled around without looking up. "Was it the same amount as Sidle's?"

"I don't keep track."

He made a noncommittal noise and when his phone rang again, answered it as if the supervisor wasn't even in the room. Grissom did his impersonation of a cigar store Indian, but retreated finally.

The AD looked up to make sure he was alone, the other end of the conversation for his ears alone.

"Yes, sir, I'm looking into the matter."

* * *

Five days. Five freaking days and he felt just as bad as the first time he'd opened his eyes. And the frustration was making him cranky. 

He'd been moved down to the normal ward floor yesterday, which should have meant he was making progress but all it meant was noisier digs and a little less help. The nurses here were spread much thinner with so many more needing their attention. And his obnoxious roommate hit the damn buzzer every half hour it seemed for one thing or another.

He already knew all about the man's ailments. Gallstones. He'd learned more than he'd ever wanted to know about gallstones in his lifetime. And he hadn't wanted to know much if anything at all. The way the guy acted you'd think he was dyin'. He had a four inch long incision on his generous belly; four inches- he knew because he'd seen it. Twice. His roomie was ambulatory when he wanted to be, getting up mostly to use the bathroom and peek out into the hall to see what was keeping the nurse from answering his latest button push.

Dinner last night Nick had been treated to hearing a full blown tantrum when the man protested his bland diet dinner selection and wanted the fried chicken he saw go by on an orderly's push cart. Gallstones and the jerk wanted more grease in his system. Nick had pushed away his beef broth untouched.

Sun coming through the closed vertical blinds meant it was morning, but what hour, he had no idea. Needed to remember to ask someone to get him a watch. He'd already been informed that his trusty old Bulova hadn't made it through the blast, smashed when his left arm hit the pavement.

At least the jerk was still sleeping. He'd crashed out last night with the TV on. Thank God a night aide had stopped in and switched it off before Nick was driven insane by an infomercial for a food processor.

The hospital was never really quiet. Pages over the intercom. Cries and moans from other rooms. Nurses and aides yakking outside the door. Squeaky wheeled carts. But at this time in the morning, staff beginning morning rounds, most of the patients still sleeping, it was almost peaceful.

And of course, as it always seems to go, just as he was enjoying a bit of a respite, someone showed up at his bedside.

A nurse, this one dark skinned and older, salt dashed through her dark curly hair. And next to her was the youngest doc Nick had ever laid eyes on. She was Asian, cute face, chubby cheeks. And she stood about four foot five. About the same height as his ten year old niece.

The nurse, name tag too blurry still to make out, gave him a smile while she reached for the control for his bed. He felt the head of the bed raise up and he glanced questioningly at the doc then back at the nurse.

"This is Dr. Chu. She's an anesthesiologist. She's taking out the epidural."

Still dozy, Nick tried to work up a response but it was all happening so quickly. Before he knew it the nurse was easing him up and forward and he waited to see if the doc had brought a stepstool with her but she just flashed him a smile and leaned from the side of the bed to get at the catheter in his spine.

"Are you-- but I--" He wanted to say, aren't you too young to the Doogie Howser-ette, and ask for her name again and ask why he was losing his pain relief and what was he getting to replace it but all he could muster up were a few stuttered words.

The nurse, hands on his shoulders holding him steady, smiled more broadly. "She doesn't speak much English, hon. But she's good at what she does. See? She's all done."

The doc gave him another smile, nodded, holding the needle and catheter aloft for him to see, then patted him on the shoulder and left the room.

The nurse eased him back into his pillows. "We're getting you up today. Your epidural was actually stopped about an hour ago. They let the meds run out. You should be gaining feeling back very soon."

He looked down at his bare bandage-covered chest and the sheet and blanket covering the rest of him and the nurse knuckle-knocked him lightly in the shoulder in congratulations. "You graduated to a gown today. Big day for you, Mr. Stokes. You ready to try some breakfast? Get you some energy for your big doin's today."

He was still mulling over _you should be gaining feeling back very soon_. Which meant the pain would soon be returning. He swallowed once and nodded distractedly to the nurse. He doubted powdered eggs or toast would be enough to get him through what was to come.

* * *

Very soon wound up being too soon. The first 'feeling' that returned, of course, was pain. In his knee. The joint was still propped up on a pillow, wound tightly with Ace bandages, but enough dusky purple peeked out at the edges to get a hint of what it looked like underneath. One of his myriad of docs had reassured him it wasn't broken, just a dislocated knee cap. Brace and a cane and he'd be hobbling about in no time. 

Like a mouth awakening from Novocain, the numbness receded from the outermost affected areas towards the point of insertion. By the time he had pushed aside his barely touched lukewarm decaf (more like brown water) and what was supposed to be silver dollar pancakes in a puddle of sticky maple-flavored corn syrup, the only remnant of the epidural left was an annoying numb spot in the place where the needle had gone in. And he mused darkly that when that was gone he'd probably hurt there too.

The nurse from earlier came in the room and gained a name as his clearer vision finally caught her name tag. Violet. She snorted with disappointment at his still full breakfast tray.

"Never cared much for pancakes," he lied with a forced, shamed smile.

"You do know you can't survive on IV fluids alone, right? Your PT guy is due any minute and you haven't eaten a thing."

He squirmed under her glare, wincing as the pain flared up in his ribs.

Her expression softened and she walked up to his bedside. "Maybe we'll see how lunch goes. How do you feel about dry turkey sandwiches, Mr. Stokes?"

"About as well as soggy pancakes, I guess. Could ya call me Nick? Please?"

"Of course, Nick." She picked up the hanging bell cord and placed it next to him on the bed. "You know, you're actually allowed to use this thing," she teased with an arch of her brow and a smile. "Haven't heard hide or hair from you since your arrival."

"Figured you wouldn't have time for anything between pillow fluffings next door," he muttered under his breath and with a baleful glare through the privacy curtain at his roomie.

She caught the look and grinned broadly. "Oh, you and I are gonna get along famously, Nick." And she fluffed his pillows up for him as he gave her the first genuine smile he'd been able to muster up since the night of the bombing.

A light knock on the door and they both looked up to see a man standing in the doorway looking for an invite in. She waved the man over and turned, pointing her finger at Nick.

"Don't go running off anywhere. I'm gonna want you around a bit longer."

Nick nodded at her joke but swallowed as he turned to face the new guy who stood in typical soldier's 'at ease' position. Legs apart, hands clasped behind his back.

"So I get up now, huh? You the PT guy?"

"Name's Matt. And I _am_ the PT guy." He was a short, bullnecked man, about Nick's age, dressed in slate blue scrubs. Blonde crew cut and military insignia tattoo peeking out from his sleeve on a bulging bicep. He stuck a hand out and Nick extended his own annoyingly shaky, IV punctured hand in reply. Matt seemed to disregard his infirmity and shook his hand with a strong grip.

"I'm Nick. PT recipient." The joke was lame, but he was working up to a full blown state of panic in anticipation of how rough he knew this was going to be. Hell, he could barely handle the pain from sitting up in bed. Gritting his teeth and plastering on another forced smile he said, "So. Let's do this."

"Look, Nick. I'm not gonna lie to you. This first time up is gonna suck."

Nick coughed out a laugh at the man's blunt directness, but appreciated the honesty and the recognition of his fear.

"But each time after this, it'll get better," Matt continued. "So. We'll take it one step at a time. Literally."

Nick nodded his acceptance. "I, uh. I've got so much, uh, stuff," he said, waving his hand from his head to his lap.

"Don't worry about the stuff. I've seen worse. Just hand over the reins, okay?"

Nick cocked his head at the horse reference. Matt smiled, big square white teeth with a gap not unlike Sara's. "Read your med file before taking the assignment. Saw your history had you thrown from a horse. Twice, if I read it right."

"Oh, man. Yeah, once as a kid, again as a teenager. Collarbone the first time, dislocated shoulder the second."

"So you know all about pain and getting back on the horse. Any more clichés I can use?"

"No. Please. I'm in enough pain already."

"Well, alrighty then. Like you said. Let's do this." He pulled the blankets back to the end of the bed and helped ease Nick's legs over the edge. His toes brushed the icy floor tentatively as he tried to catch his breath.

It already sucked. Just moving his knee had started it to wailing at him and his left side was now woken up completely and complaining eagerly.

Matt, to his credit, waited patiently for Nick to summon up the gumption for the next part. He took the time to gather up some slack in the oxygen, then grabbed up the other tubing and attachments and pulled them off to the side a bit to keep them from tripping up their owner.

At a breathless nod from Nick, Matt wrapped one hand around each of the Texan's biceps and simultaneously stepped back and hauled as Nick rose unsteadily to his feet with a groan he just couldn't keep back, no matter how tightly he ground his teeth together.

It was actually worse than he imagined it could be. He had been basically horizontal for four days straight. Two days on morphine, the next two with the epidural.

Now here he stood, pretty much pharmaceutically naked, the Tylenol delivered with his morning swill not even putting the slightest of dents in the armor of pain wrapped around his left side. He pulled his left foot from the cold tile, trying to ease the agony in his knee, swaying between and within the meaty hands of the physical therapist, eyes screwed shut, pulling in painful gasps between clenched teeth. Gravity beat down on his head, his chin dropping down to his chest, unable to hold it up. Ironically, his stomach had no problem rising up to meet his throat, bitter coffee bile gathering at the back of his mouth.

Matt stood firm as a rock, not uttering a word. No encouragement, no platitudes. He was just _there _for him, rooted like a short-ass oak tree, hands not budging as Nick fought for control over his pain and his stomach.

It was a fight he soon realized he was going to lose and he wrapped cold shaky fingers in the slate blue fabric of Matt's scrub top and managed to mutter, "Enough," as his knee began to fold under his weight.

The branches of the oak never relented and he felt himself turned in place, his ass dropping, certain he was going to wind up on the floor, no clear idea where he was in the room, when he felt his rear make contact with a cushioned surface and sank into the chair next to his bed. He'd made it six whole inches. He trembled from head to toe, eyes squeezed shut, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as he took gasping gulps of air. He felt the cannula being pulled from his face, replaced by the claustrophobia-inducing mask, but it was bringing air back to his oxygen starved lungs and he sucked greedily at it.

He cracked his eyes open to see Matt moving the IV pole closer, straightening out the oxygen tubing where it fed into the wall, draping it over the arm of the chair, and taking care of the other stuff, all with nary a word while Nick tried to pull himself together.

He was utterly disgusted with himself. He lasted on his feet maybe thirty seconds before wimping out completely, practically fainting, just from standing up. He sagged back against the chair in exhaustion, his hand rising with a pitiful tremor to wipe the sweat from his brow.

The blanket Matt draped across his lap was the final straw. In one night he'd been transformed from a healthy vibrant thirtysomething to a fucking ninety year old invalid with a goddamn piss-bag. A black pall of depression that he'd been too out of it to notice stalking him before descended on him to cover/smother him in its own heavy blanket.

He looked up to see Matt watching him steadily, still no comment from the Universal Soldier.

He offered up a mumbled apology for his failure, for his weakness. The therapist waited until he had Nick's eyes locked with his. "You did better than I expected, Nick."

Nick's eyes narrowed. _Great. Pity and patronizing. _

"I'm serious," Matt continued. "A lot of people wouldn't have even bothered trying. And I kinda figured you might pass out on me. You made it to the chair and you're still with us. In my book, that's pretty impressive. See you again at end of shift."

And he wheeled about on his heels and walked out the door.

* * *

He wasn't really sure what exactly he expected to see. The last and only time he'd visited his best friend had shamefully been the day after he'd gotten hurt. The second bombing the following night had thrown what was formally a whirlwind of activity into a full blown Category Five hurricane. Four days of back breaking work, living on coffee and NoDoz and whatever could be eaten out of Styrofoam containers and Chinese takeout boxes. 

Now, three days later, having only the barest of reports back from the one visit Sara had squeezed in, only to find Nick sleeping soundly, he knew only that his partner was doing well enough to have been transferred out of ICU.

Had to have been a leaps and bounds improvement as his sole visit had consisted of Nick slurring out a few words and gasping for breath, face screwed up in what appeared to be excruciating pain. It had ended five minutes later when Nick fell unconscious again.

Which was why he wasn't sure what he expected to see. Nick sitting in bed, reading a magazine or watching TV? Chatting up a pretty nurse or jawing with his roommate? He'd seen Nick in a hospital only once before, and that visit had been brief, in and home the same day. The Texan was tough. Carried a gym built physique. Was seemingly indefatigable, able to work a double shift with a smile on his face and still find time for a quick game of one-on-one. And lately, along with the closely shorn haircut he'd put on another twenty pounds of bulk, every drop of it pure muscle.

So as his knuckles rapped lightly on the door frame and he poked his head into the room it was understandable when his eyes skimmed over the form sitting in the chair next to the door-side bed. Figuring Sara had it wrong, that Nick was in the window bed, he advanced quietly into the room, trying not to disturb the occupant of the chair. He heard a cough, turned to give a small embarrassed wave at the stranger while averting his eyes, because hospital visits were inherently uncomfortable, and no one wants a stranger staring at them in those circumstances, and his eyes caught the face of the cougher.

It was his best friend. Only it wasn't.

Nick was wearing a hospital gown in an unfortunate sage green color, the same shade as his skin was currently. His lower half was swathed in a pale blue acrylic blanket.

An oxygen tube at his nose tethered him to the wall behind the bed, more tubing running from the hand resting on the chair arm to an IV pole and from under the blanket at his feet.

His left arm hugged a pillow to his side, squeezing it with squinched closed eyes and a knit brow as another cough wracked his body. His hacking sounded wet and congested and something nasty collected in his mouth that he spat out into a crumpled Kleenex.

With a tired moan he dropped his head back against the chair, eyes fluttering, then snapping open as he caught sight of his visitor. Well, the one snapped open. The other was still half-shut by a heavy purpled lid under a scabbed over, black-stitched laceration on his forehead.

"Hey." He took a hesitant step forward. "You uh…up for a visitor?"

Nick replied with a hand wave towards the empty bed, the only other place to sit in the room.

Warrick walked over and sat down, the flimsy mattress sagging under his weight.

"You look good –" He was cut off by a baleful glare. "Yeah, a'ight. So you look like warmed over shit. But you're doin' better, right?"

"Define better," Nick muttered darkly.

"Outa that bed, bro. That's gotta count for somethin'."

"Rick, my ass moved from sitting in a bed to sitting in a chair. Don't act like I'm doin' fucking handsprings."

"Whoa. Okay, easy, bro. Just makin' conversation. You remember conversation doncha?"

"Haven't been doin' much talking. Not exactly a bustling social scene in here."

_Oh, shit. _Warrick knew immediately what Nick meant; could read the man like a book, even if it was like some pissy, grouchy clone had taken his place. The team had been so wrapped up in the bombings, they'd had hardly any time to come by.

"Sara said she came by the other day but you were sleeping. But you're right. We've been kinda scarce. Sorry, bro. It's been …kinda hectic at the Lab."

He was trying to tiptoe around the reason for them being so busy, the group all agreeing not to tell Nick about the full tragedy at The George, or the second bombing at the brewery. But he may as well not have bothered, because while the old Nick would have immediately perked up at talk of doings down at the Lab, this Nick just gave him a small nod and looked away.

"Kinda figured this place would be swimming with Stokeses. I heard Cath got a hold of your mom."

"Yeah. She called me. Told her not to bother coming out. My sister Lorraine's just found out she's havin' twins, and there were complications from the fertility treatment. And Janey is due to have hers any day. She's the baby girl, havin' her first baby... you know how it is."

"Yeah, but jeez, Nick. I mean..." _I mean what? Look at you? Look at how bad you look? _

"'s no biggie, Warrick. Just as soon not have them fussin'." And that ended that.

Mentally picking his way through a landmine field of topics, Warrick decided to try something simple.

"It's been a real scorcher out there. Indian summer in Vegas. Not too bad in here, with the AC at least."

Another nod while shaky fingers picked at a frayed edge on the blanket.

_Oooookay. Strike one_. "Your Cowboys pulled it out in OT last night against the Pats. Brady was havin' an off night, but the Cowboys' D was looking good. Looks like a decent season shaping up for them."

"That's cool," was Nick's decidedly unexcited response. "What time is it?"

Warrick glanced at his watch. "It's uh, almost five. You uh, need a watch?" He looked around the drab room; no clock on the pale green walls. And the window was pretty much blocked by the privacy curtain. "Tough to know what time it is in here, I guess."

"I usually grab the time off a nurse or an aide when they come by. But yeah, a watch would be cool."

"No problem. I'll uh, make sure whoever shows up next brings you one, okay?"

Another small nod. "No big deal. Whenev—" but his reply was broken off by another bone shaking cough. His elbow practically buried itself in the pillow he squeezed against his chest as his other hand rose with the Kleenex to his mouth. A sound like a sink drain backing up and Nick gagged, spitting out a hunk of mucous distastefully. He sat back and sucked at the oxygen through his nose. " Sorry. Doc says I gotta clear this shit from my lungs."

Warrick cringed internally but shook his head like it didn't bother him at all. "Don't worry about me, bro. Do what ya gotta do to get better. They, uh… they give you any idea when they're gonna spring you?"

Nick shook his head and looked away. "Haven't said word one about it. Guess if it was anytime soon they'd at least've talked to me about it."

Sports and weather done, his health too prickly to broach, work at the Lab off limits, and Nick's disturbing melancholy had Warrick stumped for further conversation.

The silence was thankfully interrupted by a low knock at the door. A guy dressed in grey-blue scrubs entered and gave Nick a small wave. It appeared Nick wasn't going to make introductions so Warrick stood and nodded at the guy. The CSI had about a foot in height on the guy, but it was clear the dude was ripped. Tats and crew cut said military. "I'm Warrick Brown, friend of Nick's."

The man stuck out a beefy paw, swallowing Warrick's hand in a vice-like grip. "Matt Carlson. PT guy, right, Nick?"

Nick looked decidedly peeved and Warrick was at a loss as to what the hell was going on. "You uh, want me to clear out?"

"Not unless Nick wants it. Just gonna get him on his feet and probably back into bed."

_Christ. He was asking about Nick going home and his buddy needed help just standing? What the hell was he _thinking? "You uh…you okay with me stickin' around, partner?"

Nick glared at the therapist, then turned his scowl on the taller man. "I don't need an audience for this, Rick. Why don't you head on back? Work's probably piling up back at the Lab."

Warrick took the verbal blow and swallowed back his response. "Sure, man. I'll just get gone. You take care, and I'll come back and see you as soon as I can."

Nick just nodded and waved a hand at him, not so much in _goodbye_ as in _you're dismissed_.

Warrick shook his head sadly and headed for the door. He stopped in the doorway, considering trying to go back and maybe offer help or a pep talk. From around the small corner made by the bathroom he heard the therapist say, "You ready?" Then a cry and a moan from his partner as the chair scraped briefly on the floor. Warrick squeezed his eyes shut in empathy, his hand lingering on the doorframe, then quickly left the room.

The trip back to bed hadn't gone anywhere near as well as the trip out of bed. After being bodily hoisted from the chair and pivoted back towards the bed, despite Matt's best efforts (_he could only assume_, he thought morosely) he had banged his bad knee on the chair. Fireworks of pain, hell, a whole fricking Roman candle exploded in his leg. The reflexive reaction to bend over and grab at his fiery joint had knocked over the next domino, igniting agony in his side. Then his head joined the party with its own noisemaker.

It was at that point that Matt's prediction of him passing out earlier almost came true. But as much as he wanted to check out, to let his body enjoy the festivities without the host being present, he never quite made it, relegated instead to gasping, near sobbing, and gulping back the upheaval his stomach was staging.

He waved off the mask Matt threatened him with, instead sniffing deeply from the cannula until the grey spots in his vision cleared.

The therapist methodically replaced his various tubes and bags back to their accustomed places, then stood in his favorite pose. He hadn't said a word since getting the okay to lift Nick from the chair.

The strong silent thing was wearing on the injured man's nerves. Because he had been anything but strong and silent. Weak and whiny was closer to the truth. He hated the tears that moistened the corners of his eyes. Hated the smell of the plastic tubing in his nose. Hated pissing through a tube. Hated the pain that never seemed to go away. Hated the shattered shell of a man he'd become.

"You did good today."

_Ahhh. The tree speaks. _Nick just grunted out a sarcastic laugh.

"You'll do better tomorrow," Matt continued, unfazed.

_Tomorrow. Christ, it's only five in the frickin' afternoon. Still have dinner to ignore and walls to stare at for another seven hours until it's 'tomorrow'. _

"I'm not on tomorrow. Your PT _gal _will be Janet. Knowing her, she'll probably have you waltzing around this place tomorrow."

"Never learned to dance," Nick muttered. "Not comin' back for round two, huh?" he baited the therapist.

"Nope. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, I'm here. Janet's got Tuesday, Thursday, and every other Saturday. Tomorrow I work at the VA."

"You do this at the VA, too?"

"Yup. Figure I kinda owe them, what with them giving me the new leg an' all." He lifted a scrubs leg to show a prosthetic limb. "Lost it in '91, outside of Basra." He dropped the pants leg back down, no indication now of what lay under it.

"I'll see you day after tomorrow. Tell Janet not to wear you out too much." And the soldier gave a short wave and walked out the door.

A few minutes later a nurse came in with a syringe she emptied into the port of Nick's IV. "Matt said you we're feeling pretty rough, and the doctor left orders in case your pain got bad. This oughta ease it a bit."

She peeled away several layers of the Ace bandage from around his knee, adding two icepacks she pulled from her smock pockets, then winding it back up.

Nick grimaced at first, then eased back down as the numbing cold sunk into the aching joint. Allowing himself to drift a bit on the light haze of the painkiller, he felt his eyes grow heavy and was at the edge of sleep when a noise startled him.

His asshole roommate had awakened from his afternoon snooze and had flipped on the TV.

At least he flipped to the early news, and not wrestling or, God forbid, a Friends rerun.

He allowed the talking heads' voices to wash over him, lulling him back to that warm comfortable place he hadn't been to in what felt like ages.

…_Authorities are still offering no information or leads on the bombing at the Union Jack Brewery that took the lives of three employees. The Crime Lab and Sheriff's departments are remaining closed-lipped on whether there is any connection to the bombing of The George that took the lives of five men, including that of rookie Officer Miles Taylor, and wounded over a dozen others. Channel Four has learned that a witness has come forth in The George bombing, alleging Crime Scene Investigator Nicholas Stokes chased and/or pushed a man into the pub just moments before its destruction. Officer Stokes is reportedly in serious but stable condition at Desert Palms, and the as yet unidentified man he is alleged to have pursued was killed in the blast. When asked for verification of this report Lab Director Conrad Ecklie simply said, 'no comment.' Next on Channel Four at Five, Felice Guzman with her tips on how to fry a flauta. _

* * *

A/N: Big thanks to those who have been sticking with us and letting us know your thoughts. Random musing at the bio. 


	8. Chapter 8

_

* * *

_

_Whoosh._

"_Niiiiiice," his partner called out._

_The ball had perfect air, nothing but net, and Nick ran under the basket to snatch it before a second bounce and tossed it back to the waiting hands of his buddy. Warrick caught it, shuffling his feet back and forth between two sets of greedy hands trying to knock the ball away._

_Sweat dripped into his eyes and Nick pulled at the hem of his damp sleeveless shirt to dab them. He circled around, Kai, the tall Asian, keeping an eye on his movements. Rick twirled around, jumped, and threw the ball at him. Nick's fingers curled around the rubber and he shoved a shoulder into his defender who'd made a beeline for him as soon the ball went into motion._

_Nick held his arms up, footwork up, then down, an elbow nearly clipped the side of his face as he maneuvered around. _

_There. _

_He saw his opening, weaved to the left, but threw right into Warrick's waiting hands, long legs pumping towards the goal. The taller CSI jumped, dunked, and whooped as it fell through the basket._

"_Damn you two!" Kai cursed as he lunged at the ball, gobbled it up before it hit the ground and tossed it towards his younger partner. The kid caught and dribbled it along the court, eyes darting back and forth at the two criminalists that circled him like a pair of lions._

"_For scientists, you guys sure play for blood," the rookie joked._

_Warrick and Kai tried to guard each other as Nick stepped up to dance back and forth with his opponent. "Don't ya know that us lab geeks got to keep in shape to play with our chem sets?"_

_Nick dove at the ball but the young pup sidestepped and shot for the basket from where he stood. The three froze as the ball hit the rim, circled interminably, then fell away._

"_Lookie there. Gotta admit, your new partner's got balls," Warrick joked at the failed attempt._

_The cop scowled at his buddy. "Don't be trying to be Dwayne Wade with these two," he chastised with a smile._

_The two LVPD officers battled the criminalists until the final ball twirled around and fell into the fabric weave. Warrick and Nick knocked knuckles in victory, both men's chests heaving, hands rested on a set of knees. When all four men collected their breath, they each congratulated the other on a good game._

_Warrick patted Kai on the shoulder as the cop wiped at his forehead. "Tell Stokes to lay off those protein drinks; guy doesn't need to be ripped to lift tweezers," he jibed._

_Nick caught the remark and chuckled as he soaked up the sweat from his closely shaved head with a towel. He dropped to the ground on his ass to cool down before heading to the showers. Kai's friend rummaged through his duffel and handed the Texan a bottle of water._

_Nick nodded thanks, gulping down the refreshment. "Nice game, man."_

_The kid smiled. "Thanks."_

_The criminalist squirted some of the lukewarm water over his flushed face, the tepid liquid cooling his skin. "I'm sorry, man. What's your name again?"_

"_It's Taylor. I'm the 'new guy'," he laughed._

A cough brought his mind to the present, the scowling expression reminiscent of one of his grade school teachers. Violet glared at him, hand on each hip, her head shaking as if he was some unruly child.

"I'm not your mama, Nick."

He felt bad enough to move around lumps of what had been passed off as meatloaf around his plate.

The stern expression shifted to exasperated as she took the utensil out of his hand. "Don't make a mess, young man. Just pretend its a T-Bone," as she stirred the mashed potatoes. "These aren't half bad. They're actually real."

Nick dropped his hands into his lap, the lunch tray in the way of adjusting his bed to a more comfortable position. He allowed his head to sag a little against his pillow, feigning ignorance in hopes that his nurse would just take it away and leave him alone.

No such luck as the heavy-set woman put down the fork and began peeling back the cover of his applesauce. "If anything, this should only take three or four spoonfuls," and she handed him the plastic cup, waiting for him to take it out of her hands.

He stared at it, his stomach turning on itself uncomfortably, his appetite zero and the thought of the mashed fruit disgusting.

"Not hungry," he muttered and turned his head to face the empty bed that his roomie had vacated hours earlier when his family finally came and took him home. No more bellyachin' and the probably only temporary return of blissful silence.

Violet would not be deterred and made a grand gesture of going towards the window and sliding open the curtain, allowing sunlight to fill the darkness of the gloomy room. Satisfied, she returned with a grin, "This isn't a cave for you to hide in. Maybe this will warm up that disposition of yours."

The rays lost some of their luster as they faded towards his end of the room, but the light still hurt his eyes, his vision blurring once again as it did more often than not with any change in his environment. He squeezed them shut in response and wanted to curl away. He held his arm over his left side, flat pillow a layer of protection as he coughed again, the flare of pain something he was becoming oddly accustomed to, and he simply waited for it to fade away.

Violet didn't talk to him. She removed the untouched food, returned his bed tray to its side, and checked the readouts on the machines. The cold feel of metal on his chest startled him; she didn't even try to warm the end of it, like she typically did. He sat numbly and allowed her to listen to his heavy breathing.

"In… … … … Out"

She stared at him accusingly. "Lisa's gonna give you a tongue lashing," she chided as she put the stethoscope around her neck and scribbled into his chart.

The airflow to his cannula increased as Violet handed him a Kleenex box with an unspoken order. "You're due for another round of your meds, though if you keep that belly of yours empty, all you're gonna do is throw it right back up and make my day harder."

It must have been tough for her to keep up the displeased façade because a hand patted his shoulder. "Its gonna get easier Nick, I promise."

He didn't say anything as he was left alone again, instead he cast a weary gaze at his empty, silent room, and pressed the button to level his bed down to lessen the pressure on his agonized left side. He messed with his sheets some more, pulling them over his flimsy gown. He didn't bother with the television, not wanting to learn anything else from another blaring newscast. The weight in his chest increased and he hugged himself fitfully wondering when he'd ever be able to do anything other than lay around wasting away.

* * *

He was back up in bed, and just as Violet had warned, his respiratory therapist was none too pleased about his lack of initiative with his breathing exercises. Lisa had raised the bed until it was an effort to in and exhale, every expansion and constriction of his chest leaving him dependent even more on his air supply. He was to remain as vertical as possible, endure the extra pressure on his ribs, thankfully made a bit more tolerable by the dose of pain medication coursing through his veins.

Somehow, sitting straighter stretched the rest of his body, his knee now an even more vocal source of attention, and an aide was in search of an ice pack to relieve the extra distress. Thanks to the sadistic efforts of his 'therapist', he coughed more often, each eruption through his chest making him feel even more frayed and worn out.

He ached in so many places, that Nick couldn't recall when he wasn't sore or in pain, becoming sadly inured to his constant miserable state.

"Um, can I come in?"

His good eye shot up at that voice, the blob turning into a suit, tie, and familiar dark hair. Nick didn't think he could sink any further into his mattress.

"I knocked, but I ...um, wasn't sure you heard me," Alex Vartann said hesitantly.

The detective ventured in even though the criminalist had never invited him to.

Nick was lost in a fog, fumbling for words. He began a grunted greeting but instead a hacking cough seized him, arms braced around his middle to control it somewhat. He wiped at his mouth dejectedly and massaged his temples. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Alex forced a smile. "Hey man, that sounds like sweet music to my ears compared to the last time I saw you."

The detective hesitated for a moment, walked over to the bed, and handed the CSI an envelope. "I know you must have a ton of this stuff, but this is from the guys at the bullpen."

The card was a curve ball and with shaky hands Nick slowly tore it open to reveal a card, fuzzy cartoon of a guy with a cast on his leg with a hand-drawn magnifying glass in one hand and a penciled in vest with 'CSI' scrawled over it. The end of his mouth almost perked up, and when he flipped it open, an array of cursive and printed well wishes were inscribed all over the inside as well as the back.

Nick squinted to read, but the words jumbled all together along with the roar inside his head and he dropped it in his lap dejectedly.

Vartann frowned. "Something wrong?"

_Everything._

He rubbed the ends of his fingertips over the paper, feeling his chest constrict even more. "No," he croaked.

"You know, Sto--- Nick. What you did at The George..." The detective paused as the other man tensed, staring vacantly at his lap, not once looking him in the eye. Vartann wet his lips. "You saved a lot of people, goin' in there to get the rest of them out like that."

Nick's stomach knotted up, his _empty _stomach and he battled to keep from losing whatever contents remained in front of this man. Puffing heavily at his oxygen he tried to focus on calming his body and ignoring everything else, blocking all sound around him. He didn't want to hear this... not now.

For hours he had wracked his scrambled brain for any scrap of memory of that night, coming up empty. Anything, anything at all to back up or discredit the newscaster and the words bouncing around his skull.

Five people dead. No wonder Brass hadn't filled him in, or answered any questions. The doubt over his actions was an ache that gnawed and twisted deep inside him.

_Death of an officer._

He didn't want to read hollow words and forced obligations.

"Did Taylor have a family?" Nick wanted the other man to go away, but he needed to know. Had to.

Vartann shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. Wife and two kids. We're taking care of them."

_Protect our own. _Of course the boys in blue would, it was duty and honor. "Good," he answered, shoving the card further away. "He was... … he was a good guy."

Truth was, Nick didn't really know Taylor, couldn't even remember his first name until the report. But he'd always been friendly, and smiled. A lot, with the biggest, silly dimples. His partner, Kai, gave the guy a difficult time, but the kid took his lumps and worked harder. Even asked a question or two about forensics. That's it, though. He hadn't gotten to know him as much as the other guys. Nick encountered detectives most of the time, but he knew how much the beat cops did day in and day out.

Silence, uneasy and icy, filled in the void of conversation. The words _protect our own _echoed in his head over and over.

That's when they sunk in, burrowed within the very marrow of his bones, dug a trench alongside the pounding in his skull. It clicked in an eerie kind of way.

And it was worse than any physical pain.

"Nick? You okay? Want me to get someone?"

The detective's voice shook him from the sinking quicksand of darkness. The detective looked freaked out at his little trip across the border from melancholy right into the land of despondency.

"Thank you for what ya did for me... …back at the bar." He knew his manners, wouldn't do not to offer gratitude for saving his sorry ass.

Vartann grabbed the man's elbow, forcing Nick to actually look at him. "Hey, Stokes."

Nick could feel being torn apart at the seams, unraveling what little wholeness was left, but he'd man up, and look when spoken to.

Alex squatted, got right at eye level so he wasn't looming over the other man. "You ...you scared the shit outa me. Never going to forget those moments for the rest of my life.

We lost people on that scene and a good officer. I'm glad we didn't have to bury another brother." Vartann squeezed Nick's bicep. "We're not gonna let those deaths be in vain, ya hear? It could have been a lot worse...it would have been. If you hadn't thought so fast on your feet and got the rest of those drunks outa there. You understand?"

He didn't, not at all. But Nick could feel the blackness descend, swallow him up and crush from within. The weight on his chest was all encompassing, a pressure fierce and relentless pressing down on him. Nick struggled on the flow of air, and, as the detective's face grew alarmed, he cursed at his weakness.

A coughing fit wracked his torn body leaving him breathless despite the oxygen. His visitor's words grew further away as another set of hands were poking and prodding again, that fucking oxygen mask back over his face, and the ease of breathing a bit better.

When he opened his eyes his visitor was mercifully gone, and an aide checked his vitals, speaking in that damn calm matter he'd grown to hate. The stupid contraption had to be left on, and for once he didn't care. Nick grabbed the sleeve of the faceless woman and stuffed the card in her hands. He didn't care what she did with it, but at least it was gone.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

* * *

When it came to which hour was morning or evening, her compass in the past had been her daughter. Get Lindsey ready for school, run to see her plays, or practice, miss the less important things. Get calls weeks later about discipline issues or skipped classes. The past week her life consisted of the Lab, powwows, endless paperwork and maybe, if they were lucky, a word or two over a quick meal with the one constant in her life.

Trying to fit in anything else was like shifting the cosmic balance. She finished processing a victim in one room, and went to go visit a friend in another. There was something wrong with this picture and it bothered her to no end that one of the most vibrant people in her life had been reduced to the shattered remains of Warrick's words and her last memory of a man who battled over something as simple as air.

Catherine hoped as she turned a corner that Warrick had exaggerated about his condition. The Nick Stokes she knew would simply pick up the pieces, figure out the best way to put everything back together, and not let anyone stand in his way. The door to his room was open and she heard a chastising female voice admonish some poor guy slouched in his bed.

Except the person on the receiving end _was _her noble cowboy, but this man didn't resemble anything of the perfect image in her head. Standing silently in the doorway Catherine took a moment to reflect. Nick had almost died; a few inches in any other direction, or several seconds later, and he would have met another fate. Though he was mercifully alive, he faced a grueling uphill battle to reclaim what was once a normal life.

Her face flushed hot knowing he needed as much support as possible and that the person responsible for putting her friend in that bed, and others into body bags, was the same reason none of them had been able to provide Nick with what he needed. When his eyes caught sight of her there, watching the spectacle, they reflected defeat and embarrassment.

No way in Hell she would allow such emotions shine at her any more. She'd find a shovel and dig out the hole that Nick had fallen in, and haul his ass right back out. She strode in with confidence enough for the both of them; the young lady glanced at her with a tired smile.

Catherine crossed her arms and waited while the medical person who looked barely old enough to be a candy striper took her stethoscope to Nick's back, ordering him to hold his breath as long as possible.

The petite brunette supported Nick as he leaned forward; a hard raspy cough plagued him as she tried to listen to his breathing. The woman shook her head. "This is why you're supposed to remain sitting up in bed and not lazying around flat on your back. You're not gonna get better doing that."

Nick sagged back againt the raised end of the bed, the effort of remaining upright leaving him winded. The lecture over, the patronizing woman either got tired of reprimanding Nick in front of an audience, or fell for the kicked puppy expression he sported.

Catherine's heart went out to him; he did look like some pathetic animal after being shoved to the curb, too demoralized to even offer excuses.

"I heard PT was rough again," the woman's voice softened and Catherine finally caught a glance at her nametag, Lisa.

A noncommittal grunt was the only reply forthcoming and it occurred to the lead criminalist how humiliating it must be to know one of his superiors had a ringside seat to his misery. She felt bad for not staying hidden.

Lisa gathered up some kind of portable inhaler and gave her patient a sympathetic smile. "Janet is a tough cookie, which is why eating and doing your exercises will help with the more physical aspect of your recovery. Your nurse will be in in a little while."

Nick's muteness dwelled and the therapist left with a sigh. Catherine pulled up a chair and when nothing was said she took incentive. "She seemed charming."

He scowled at her, and despite it Catherine smiled. "Looks like your left eye is working better now."

"Yeah, both of 'em can now take in my humble surroundings," he mumbled.

The swelling had receded leaving dark bruising all over that side of Nick's face, one that was quite pale even in the low lighting. His raw skin was now scabbed over, or covered by gauze and bandages wrapped all the way from his elbow down to his wrist. It looked like he'd been given a fresh shave save for his sensitive left side.

"So go ahead and try to give me as tough a time as you did Warrick, because this whole silent routine isn't working."

"Why are you here?"

Talk about the proverbial slap to the face, and it stung. She squinted, flailing for words. "Because I want to see how you're doing."

He sucked on his air supply harshly, fumbling with his bed sheet only to have it get tangled by all the tubes he'd been tethered to. She resisted the urge to help, and he pulled them up to his neck, knotting the fabric up.

"You cold?" she asked, witnessing a shiver.

"Nah, sheet's just too thin," he mumbled, voice rough, coughing some more with a grimace. Nick continued to play the game of being more fascinated with the ends of his blanket, messing with a frayed part.

"Talk to me, Nick." She rested her hand on his arm, fixing him with her no nonsense look.

He barely acknowledged it, frowning. "You waiting to see if the punching bag remembers anything?"

"What? I don't understand." She really didn't. His refusal to meet her eyes tested her limits, exhaustion and frustration over his health at odds with the annoyance. With even more silence but for his heavy breathing her tone took more of an edge. "I'm not a mind reader, Nicky. Help me out here."

"Saw the news," and he turned to face away from her. "Heard about the other bombings, the deaths no one bothered to tell me about."

She could hear the sound of dominoes falling into place; it took willpower not to pity him. Nick didn't need that, didn't deserve it.

"We kept the information about the case quiet because it wouldn't be fair to you."

"Fair or covering the Lab's ass?" He finally looked at her, dark shadows under his eyes, forehead furrowed with a light sheen of sweat.

This was more than being cranky and downtrodden; Catherine was shocked by the words and tone coming from the man she had known for so many years. "We want you to get better, Nicky. Where the hell are you getting cover-ups from?"

"I may be a useless broken-down mule who can't even stand under my own power, but my brain's intact. Might've bounced around a little and sure as hell still feels like it half the time." He wrapped an arm around his chest, easing the ache from yelling, even if his version of that was talking like some frog. "I know what they're sayin," and he pointed vaguely to his silent TV above the bed.

"No one's talking about anything, Nick. I've been too busy running around to pay attention to the useless news, but we've been breaking our backs trying to find this asshole!"

He shrunk back into the mattress and she cursed herself for venting like that. Catherine could not stop herself and held his wrist, avoiding the IV line that bruised up the rest of his hand. "I don't know what you heard, but you know as well as I do that the press makes up things when there are no answers. Recovery is just as much mental as it physical and we just want you to concentrate on that."

Anything else was cut off by the arrival of one of his nurses; a nondescript woman stuck a thermometer in his ear and checked on the machines. She lifted his hand to fiddle with the clip on his finger. "You messin' with this thing, sir?"

"No," Nick replied as she released him and pulled the instrument out of his ear. Catherine didn't like her expression as the woman wrote something on a pad of paper and stood there watching Nick.

When the patient didn't speak Catherine did. "Something wrong?"

The nurse smiled fakely, ignored Catherine, and asked Nick, "You feeling all right ?"

Nick shifted in his bed. ""Bout the same."

The nurse cocked her head, "All right. You use that call button if you need anything and make sure you eat something when your dinner tray comes around."

Nick was non-committal again and Catherine settled back into the hard chair. The moment to talk had slipped away. She sighed; there went the pep rally. "You want me to find you some sports to watch?" she asked gesturing to the TV.

Nick shook his head. "Nah, I might leave the sound on, but watching anything just gives me a headache. My doc says I've been knocked on the skull too much." He laughed bitterly, then grimaced when it resulted in another coughing fit.

Once more she tried to find the lost thread to her motivational speech. Of course, her pager went off signaling the lab. Catherine rolled her eyes and, before her excuse was audible, Nick just waved her away.

"I understand, don't worry."

There was no sincerity in his voice and when Catherine kissed him good-bye she felt that somehow she'd made things worse.

* * *

"Hey, Hodges? You wanna at least _try _not to be such an asshole?"

"What? I'm just saying that I think Conrad has a point about productivity. This little _kaffee klatsch _is a case in point."

"Are you--? First off, I haven't had more than five minutes to myself other than a quick whiz in three full shifts. Grissom's got me going through every frame of every traffic camera in a mile radius around both The George and the brewery. And second off, hello! You're here with us! And, Bobby? Why the hell _is_ Hodges up here with us anyway?"

"Because he was hoverin' around Wendy, flirting rather unsuccessfully, when I went to get her. He invited himself along."

"Now I distinctly heard Wendy say, 'David, we're going up to the roof for break.'"

"Actually," Wendy inserted with an exhale from her cigarette. "I said, 'Hodges, _we're_ going up to the roof on break.' You weren't really in the _we_."

"I think a 'we' is automatically considered all-inclusive as part of its definition," Hodges replied smugly, arms crossed over his chest.

"You should stop flirting with Wendy, Hodges. Everyone knows she's got the hots for Stokes."

Wendy coughed, pointing at her cigarette as an excuse, her face flushing a deep red. Archie then cocked his head as he could have sworn he heard Bobby mutter, 'Who the hell doesn't?'

"Speaking of," Archie continued smoothly, "has anybody heard how he's doing?"

Four sets of eyes turned to look meaningfully at the fifth and thus far silent member of their group.

"I went up with Catherine the first day and Sara a couple days later. He was uh … holding his own, I guess. Looked like a victim of a bombing. Bandages, tubes, you know the drill." Greg looked pensively into his paper coffee cup as if reading tealeaves.

"Y'all heard that crap they're spewing about Nick gettin' that kid killed?" Bobby asked with quiet anger. He shook his head, blonde curls set to bouncing. "I heard Vartann's report has Nick actually _saving_ a buncha people. Why don't we see _that_ on the news?"

"Because they aren't releasing anything from the reports, that's why," Wendy snapped back. She snorted smoke through her nostrils like a small brunette dragon. "Besides, that's not the kinda crap that sells news. Cops always hafta be the bad guys these days."

"I'd like to say it's just the news, guys. But have you heard Ecklie is digging around looking for shit to pin on Nick? He had me send over all the parking lot security tapes straight to his office. I never even got a chance to look at them," Archie said in a conspiratorially lowered voice.

"Archie, you've been watching too many X-Files reruns. And why are you lowering your voice? We're on the roof, for Pete's sake."

"Hey, the way things are down there, I'm covering my ass," Archie replied, his face dead serious.

"That girl in admin told Jacqui, who told me that Ecklie pulled Nick's personnel file, too," Wendy chimed in.

"Which girl?"

"The skanky one with the tattoo of the tiger on her arm and the perpetual camel toe?"

"Oh, her," Archie and Hodges said in unison. Bobby just shook his head and Greg continued staring into the depths of his now cold beverage.

"What the hell could Ecklie want with Nick's file?" Archie stammered out quickly, cheeks tingeing pinkly.

"I'm sure Conrad has his reasons," Hodges said with a greasy smile. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown, kids. I don't envy him his position."

"Hodges, quoting Lear doesn't make you Grissom," Wendy huffed. "Speaking of the Bug Man… I heard he and Ecklie have been toe to toe ever since the first explosion. Greg, you know what that's all about? Greg?"

The Level One raised his head distractedly. "Sorry? What?"

"Ecklie. Grissom. Like Paris and Nicole. Always fighting?" the DNA tech said with a pointed look.

Greg sighed. "We've all been working like dogs and Ecklie keeps cutting back on our chow. Grissom's turning him into a chew toy. Taking out his frustrations by pissing all over everything. Can't say as I blame him. Been feeling like lifting my leg for a while now myself."

"Y'all see all those suits filin' in and outa here?" Bobby spoke up. "Looks like Langley's finest have been sniffin' 'round the yard, too. To continue Greg's oh so lovely analogy."

"You mean metaphor," Hodges said with a knowing nod.

Four pairs of glaring eyes turned on him.

"What? Nothing wrong with being grammatically correct. Even in these admittedly trying times," he finished lamely.

"Hey, guys. Who the hell is _that _now?" Archie asked, waving the group to where he was looking over the edge of the roof into the parking lot.

A large black import sedan pulled up, expelling four men in dark suits with earpieces. The last to leave the vehicle was an older woman in a tweed suit. She pointed fingers and appeared to give instruction to the suits, then straightened her skirt and walked into the front door.

"Well, kids. Looks like Margaret Thatcher come to visit," Hodges replied archly.

* * *

His ploy to avoid the director for as long as humanly possible failed, but he was left with one small victory. He'd had to be tracked down in his office, so the AD was on _his_ turf at least. Grissom had to admit he was getting tired of being summoned to Ecklie's office like a recalcitrant high school ne'er-do-well sent to the principal's office. And, much as he would own that he gave good lecture, he didn't accept them well.

Grissom gave the AD a wan smile and gestured at the plastic visitor/lecturee's chair, but Conrad had been well schooled in the finer points of management and pissing contests. He crowded Grissom instead, one ass cheek parked on the top of the entomologist's desk after blatantly shoving aside a pile of folders and what looked like a medical journal.

Ecklie adopted a treacle-y tone and made a show of bringing Grissom into his confidence, leaning forward, a whiff of wintergreen and Brylcreem wafting off him.

"I'm telling you, Gil. The sharks smell blood in the water and there's going to be a feeding frenzy. The kid was only twenty-two."

"Vartann's report is very clear, Conrad. He saw Nick escort the kid _out_ of the pub. Why would he chase or push the kid back in? _Especially_ after warning Vartann about the bomb? It makes no sense, and moreover, there is no evidence supporting this so-called witness' story."

"The camera picked up what looked like Stokes turning and pursuing the victim into the pub, Gil. And since we have nothing else to draw them off with, they're going to work this story into the ground. You know how this works; you've seen it time and time before."

"I know that you are an expert politician, Conrad. And if you really wanted to, you could spin it any way you wanted. What I can't figure out is, why you want Nick taking so much heat on this? The poor guy's fighting for every breath in the goddamn hospital, and you're letting them nibble at his defenseless bones!"

"Yes, Gil. I know how sensitive you are to 'the poor guy's' condition. Visit him often do you?"

The supervisor's eye drifted to the medical journal he'd been reading before Ecklie had slunk in. The unfortunate circumstances over in the Middle East had meant an up swell in research material for trauma doctors dealing with bombing victims.

"The amount of visits I have or haven't made has no bearing on this case, on my team, or on your mystifying and infuriating refusal to deal with the press appropriately," the supervisor uttered from between clenched jaws. "I have ONE job, Conrad. ONE job. And that is to lead my people as we process evidence. We are all working at the best level we can considering the extremity of the circumstances and the fact that we are down a valuable team member. I suggest you do YOUR job and keep the jackals at bay while we work."

"Won't just be carrion eaters soon, Gil," the AD said smoothly as he got up from the desk, surreptitiously wiping a bit of spittle from his tie with a handkerchief. "The big cats have been circling this kill and are going to want their part. And unless you give me something to throw the scent off, we will soon be up to our stones in feds of every color. Feebs, ATF, Homeland Security. They're all out there, Gil. Sitting on their asses waiting for their chance. I, for one, say we hand the whole shitpile over to one of them and wipe our hands clean. The drain on the budget alone is killing us."

Gone was any pretense at niceties. "This is our case, Conrad! I'm sick of hearing about the goddamn budget when my people are walking the halls like barely animated zombies, when a good man is lying in a hospital, and when an asshole who gets his kicks out of blowing up buildings with a hell of a lot of people in them is running around out there. I don't care if the freaking Queen of England herself tells me to hand over the case!"

"Gentlemen, I'm hardly the queen of England. Although I have been told Liz and I bear some resemblance."

Both men turned and stared at the woman who stood in Grissom's doorway.

"Mr. Ecklie. Dr. Grissom, I presume? Penelope Lovejoy. MI-5."


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Mornings were already hard. Everything settled overnight while he slept, fluid in his lungs still from the surgery, and the pain in his head and joints. Awakening meant everything came around with him. The fluid started making itself known with tightness in his chest and a tickle in his bronchi. Then his body's movement would start his knee and his head off to throbbing.

So at first, he put the pain in his chest off to a bad morning. But when his first few good coughs didn't clear anything and the pulls of oxygen he took off the cannula failed to make its way into his system he got the first inkling that something more was wrong.

He tried fumbling for the control to raise the head of the bed, hands skating across icy metal as frosty fingers of panic spread through him.

When he finally managed to find the correct button he realized that the bed wasn't going to rise fast enough for him. Bracing for the pain he hauled his body upright, pulling in his right leg and leaning himself over his knee, grabbing onto it like a drowning man would a floating log, and coughed until he saw stars.

The monitor next to his bed began blaring and it occurred to him that it couldn't mean much good but all he could concentrate on was trying to clear his lungs and making room for some desperately needed air.

The smell of cocoa butter and antibacterial soap hit his nose, then he heard movement next to him as someone silenced the monitor. Had to be Violet.

"Just couldn't let me finish my first cup of coffee, could you," her voice murmured in his ear as she worked two fingers around his wrist. Another hand went to his forehead, then pulled back quickly. He felt the pressure of a thermometer in his ear that beeped a few seconds later. Violet patted him on the shoulder then bent over to use the bed controls to raise the head of the bed up.

He continued to cling fitfully to his knee gasping for air that went nowhere. Feeling the gentle pressure of the nurse's hand lifting his head he allowed her to remove the cannula and strap the oxygen mask back over his mouth and nose. He dropped his head back into the pillows behind him and looked dazedly at the kind brown face of his comforter.

"Why --- can't-- I --?" he croaked out from under the mask.

"You have a fever, babe. Not sure, but it's probably an infection. Better with the mask on?"

He shook his head shortly. His hand went to his chest, fingers grabbing at the fabric.

She leaned over him and fiddled with the knob, turning up the flow of oxygen. Another reassuring pat to his shoulder. "Gimme a minute. I'll be right back."

True to her word, a few short minutes later she came back to his bedside, pockets of her bright green cardigan bulging. She smacked on some gloves then pulled a syringe, rubber tie, and test tube from her pocket.

"You know the drill, babe. Which one did I use last time?"

He lifted his right hand.

She picked up his left hand and turned it over, tapping lightly on his wrist near his thumb.

"ABG," he muttered with a scowl.

"Yeah, I know these hurt, but I'll take enough for everything, okay? Save you another stick at least."

He nodded tiredly. The arterial blood gas sticks hurt worse than just about anything they did to him, but at this point they could cut his fricking arm off if it meant moving some air through his lungs.

The site was already bruised and sore from all the previous testing, but Violet was an old pro and she made it as painless as getting a large gauge needle sunk into your radial artery could be.

He stared at the blood moving sluggishly into the tube, morbidly picturing the red blood cells shriveling up and dying from lack of oxygen.

"I called your doc," Violet said as she waited for a second tube to fill. "We'll start you on broad-spectrum antibiotics until we get the labs back on your donation here."

The sound of squeaky wheels heralded the arrival of the portable x-ray.

The next half hour was consumed with laying flat on a cold plastic film cassette while he was bombarded with more roentgens. At least they remembered to put the lead blanket over his middle, saving possible future generations of Stokeses from being lost forever.

The lady in the pine green scrubs was there again so at least he had a friendly face to cling to as they raised and lowered him and rolled him and put him into various origami-inspired positions.

The x-ray crew having completed their mission they packed up their stuff and trundled back out of the room, unfortunately leaving him flat on his back. He rolled halfway up, no strength left to make it the rest of the way, his ribs squeezed painfully as he lay on his side.

His guardian angel thankfully showed a few minutes later, moving the bed back up, easing him sitting up against his pillows as she muttered under her breath about _those idiotic camera jockeys. _

Completely and totally worn out and covered in a sheen of sweat from the fever and the exertions of his coughing, Nick found himself on the verge of tears. There was just nothing left to give. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

The side of the bed sank under the nurse's bulk as Violet perched herself next to him. Broad arms opened and he fell against her shoulder, pillow clutched like a lifeline to his chest as she wrapped a warm arm around him.

"Come here, sugar. Lemme see if I can help."

Her hand began paddling his back, firmly but gently. She struck up a four-four rhythm and he found himself rocking with each impact.

"I've got a daughter with CF. This helps loosen the gunk up. Let's see if we can't get some of that stuff movin', okay?"

Soon his world was the feel of her cupped hand rapping on his back and the whistling of the oxygen in the mask alternating with his rattling inhales.

Exhaustion stole over him and he felt himself drifting.

"You have any family, Nick?"

He nodded against her shoulder.

"I don't see a ring on your finger. You got a pretty little wife or girlfriend?"

He laughed from inside the mask. Shook his head.

"Good-looking man like you? Shooooot. Honey, I'll hafta do something about that. Maybe bring my baby sister in for a visit. She's real pretty. Smart, too. Dahlia's gonna be a doctor."

He raised his head to smile at her through the plastic. "Dahlia?"

"Don't make fun now, Nick. I come from a big family. My parents raised a whole garden of us. My other two sisters are Camellia and Ivy. Got two brothers. Juniper and Aster. You have any brothers or sisters?"

He nodded held up a hand with five fingers spread. "Sisters," he mumbled. Then he closed the fingers leaving the index up. "Brother."

Violet nodded. "So you know what it's like in a big family. They around here?"

Her hand continued to thump tirelessly against his back. A cough ripped through him and a huge hunk of crap came up.

"There you go. Here, Nick, gimme what came up."

He looked doubtfully at her.

She held a Kleenex out for him and pulled the mask free for him to spit. "Don't worry about grossing me out, babe. Lab'll have a field day with this. Just hand it over."

He handed her the filled tissue with a roll of his eyes, but she accepted it with a hastily re-gloved hand and popped it into a plastic baggie she pulled from her Mary Poppins-like pocket.

That out of the way she eased him once again against her shoulder and resumed smacking his back.

"You were telling me about your family, hon."

* * *

He started off trying to describe the many-legged ever-growing beast that was his sprawling family. By the time he had gotten to his oldest sister's kids his breath had given out, and he doubted very much that Violet could have understood most of his mask-muffled speech anyway. So he asked about hers and she went on lovingly about her kids and her siblings' kids and he found himself drifting to sleep. He awakened to hear voices.

"Sorry, Vi, but there's a new admit in 42 and Gloria called in today."

"Okay, Lor. I'll be right out." She pulled away gently and eased him back against the pillows. She saw how sleepy-eyed he was and teased him. "Next time I get to yammering about my family, just tell me to shut my mouth. I could go on for days."

He smiled gratefully at her and closed his eyes.

"A respiratory tech'll be in a little later to pound on you some more. And don't let this get you down, okay? We'll get you through this, too. Don't you worry."

He nodded tiredly. Despite her reassurances this new setback had him completely lost. It was like he was playing some cosmic game of Mother May I with Fate, and the bitch was letting him take only baby steps forward and giant steps back.

He watched as Violet bustled out the door, stopping as she met someone coming in. It was Matt.

He figured the militant therapist would be huffing in, demanding he shake it off and get to work, but whatever Violet said to him had him lift a hand in greeting at Nick, then turn and leave the room. He only caught the words _pneumonia_, and _not doing so well_. Understatement of the century that last bit.

He laughed to himself bitterly, then immediately regretted it as he set himself off on a vicious coughing jag. By the time he'd expended the last of his waning energy on strangling the pillow at his side and tried to get his breathing under control he saw the room going gray.

He finally succumbed with the sound of alarms going off blaring around him.

* * *

Gil rose to his feet at the sight of their strange new visitor. She was in her mid-fifties. Sharp tweed suit, expensive but practical low-heeled shoes had her topping out at five five. Strawberry blonde hair, just ashy enough to show it was natural, and a fair and freckled complexion.

He glanced at Ecklie, but could see the director was just as surprised at her arrival.

She strode forward, hand extended. "Sorry for my impromptu arrival, gentlemen, but I've only come to lend a hand if I might."

Gil returned the shake, still staring at her slightly stunned. Conrad gave her a wary once-over but ungraciously shook her hand as well.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lovejoy, but did you say you were with MI-5? You're a bit far off your turf, if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't mind it at all, Mr. Ecklie. In fact, I'd have to agree with you. However when duty calls, or in this case, the PM, I answer."

Gil cocked his head. "Ma'am, I'm not sure I understand you. Are you saying Prime Minister Blair asked you to fly to Las Vegas?"

"Not Tony himself, naturally, but I'm sure he was ultimately the push behind it. He and your President Bush are awfully good friends, you know. Just a show of support and all that," she said brightly.

"Support in what, Ms. Lovejoy?"

"Why the nasty incidents you've had of late here in the city. The bombings."

"We are already up to our ... necks," he edited himself, "in government interference. I'm not sure what you can add--"

"Please, Dr. Grissom. I know exactly what your concerns are. Firstly, let me assure you that I am here only to lend any assistance my government and I can render. That said, I believe it better to be frank and forthright with you so we can start things off on the right foot. I am here, I presume, at the behest of the PM because of pressure put on him from the conglomerate that owns Union Jack Breweries."

"Ahhh," Gil said, realization dawning on him. "And you are being asked to, let me guess… observe and relay our progress or lack thereof."

"You've worked with government interference before, I see, Dr. Grissom," she said with a knowing nod.

He cast a sideways look at Conrad, then smiled. "I have, ma'am. But any assistance MI-5 wishes to extend will be accepted and appreciated." He saw the director look at him in obvious disbelief, wondering why on earth he would be so willing to work with the woman.

"I understand Mi-5 has a huge database of known bombers and the various devices, chemical makeups, and signatures found."

"We do, Dr. Grissom. And I will expedite their availability to you, if you wish."

"Call me, Gil. And I think we have some things to discuss. I'm going to introduce you to our computer people so they can get the proper networks set up, Ms. Lovejoy."

"Please, call me Penny." And she took Gil's cue and exited the room with him, leaving behind a flummoxed Conrad Ecklie.

* * *

"Ricky? Ricky Brown?"

He hadn't been called that in decades, but the voice was just familiar enough that he stopped and wheeled his head around, searching the crowded hospital corridor.

"Mrs. Harris?" An overstuffed armchair of a woman bustled out from behind the nurses' station to wrap him in a hug around his middle.

"Ricky Brown. My heavens, if you aren't ten feet tall now," she said, pulling back to smile up at him. "What are you doing here? Oh, please tell me it's not Ruthie. I haven't seen her name on my list."

"No, no, Mrs. Harris. Grams is good. Think she was playing euchre tonight, in fact, with the Ramirezes and Miz Peterson. No, I'm here to see a friend."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ricky. Who's your friend?"

"Nick Stokes." He trailed off as he saw a look pass across her face. "What?"

She took his arm proprietarily and started leading him down the hall. "Let's get some coffee, hon. Give me a few minutes then you can go see your friend."

"I really ..." but there was no denying the pull of the nurse on his arm and he found himself shortening his steps to slow his pace for the older, much shorter woman as they walked together down the corridor.

She waved him into a quiet room meant for visitors. Vinyl couches and chairs, well-worn and covered in decades-old cigarette burns from back in the day when everyone smoked, even in hospitals. She led him to a couch and settled herself down next to him.

"Haven't seen you in church, Ricky. Have you found a new parish?" she asked, rather pointedly.

"Um, yeah," he stuttered, thrown by the accusation mixed with concern for his eternal soul he heard in her words. "St. Anthony's on Sagebrush," he offered, the nearest church to his place he could think of.

"Oh! That's Father Luke's church," she said excitedly. "Lovely man."

"Yeah. Yeah, I uh, don't go as often as I should," he allowed. "I work Saturday graveyard shift so Sunday mornings can be tough."

She patted his arm reassuringly. "I know. Ruthie tells us all about what you do. She said you are a police scientist? Is that how you know Nick?"

"Yeah. He's my partner at work. We process evidence from crime scenes for the police. Not sure Grams really understands what exactly it is that I do, even after all these years."

"She knows you do good work and help people. Maybe you don't go to church, Ricky, but you are still doing God's work." Another pat on his arm that turned sharper. "They have services other times besides Sunday mornings, you know."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, smiling as he rubbed at his now sore arm.

"Sooo," he said, subtly trying to extricate himself from the woman's attentions. "I should really go see Nick. He's probably going nuts stuck in that room all day. 'less of course he's up to flirting with the nurses," he added with a grin.

The grin wasn't met by one from the nurse. "What? Is something wrong, Mrs. Harris?"

"Call me Violet, babe. You're a grown man now. A very grown man, all ten feet of ya. And I'm afraid there is something wrong, Ricky. Your friend's pretty sick."

"But I… a colleague just talked to him yesterday. He was down I know, but …what's wrong?" He wanted to add 'now'.

"Pneumonia. Came on him like a thief in the night, child. And it's pretty bad. Especially since he never really had a chance to heal up much from the surgery."

"Is he …" He couldn't bring himself to ask, as if uttering the words might perversely make it true.

"Not gonna lie to ya, babe. He's bad off. His sats are awfully low, and no matter how much oxygen we pour into him from outside, it's not getting where it needs to go. His doc's thinking he might need to be put on a vent."

"Are you..? But he wasn't even on a vent when it first happened. How the hell has it gotten to this?"

"His immune system took a wallop, Ricky. All that fluid in his lungs from the initial injury. Not getting to move around much afterwards. All adds up. Now, I'm not trying to get all doom and gloom on you, babe. I just wanted you to have all the facts. That's what you policemen say, right? Just the facts, ma'am." She offered a sad smile, then straightened at his crestfallen expression.

"C'mon. I've taken up enough of your time and you have a friend to go visit. Go try and cheer him up. You know, a patient's outlook is just as important as anything modern medicine can give. And right now, that boy is about as low as a man can be."

"Should I… I mean, does his family…" He faded off, still shaken.

"I talked to him for a good long while today. Told me all about that family of his in Texas. And his family here in Vegas. And he is stubborn, mm! Tried to convince him to let me call down to Dallas but he wouldn't hear of it. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"Huh. Picture that," he muttered. Like he'd ever been able to convince the mule-headed Texan of anything he didn't wanna hear. "I'll try. Thanks, Mrs. …Violet. Glad Nick has you on his side."

"Shoot. That boy's got an angel of his own, surviving an explosion like that. Someone's looking out for him. I just help out, when I can. Now shoo! But here …" and she held a soft brown hand out. "Help me offa this damnable couch."

* * *

He knocked lightly on the open door, not able to see into the room from its frame, but wanting to at least offer a warning of his entrance.

He entered the room uneasily, quietly, stopping mid stride as he noted Nick was sitting up in bed, eyes shut. He was paler than even before, with two high spots of pink in his cheeks and perspiration dotted his forehead.

About to turn around and leave he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Nick stirred, opening bleary, glassy eyes. He smiled halfheartedly, waving a hand at him, urging him into the room.

He dropped down into the chair Nick had occupied on his last visit and plastered on a smile of his own.

"Heard you're makin' things tough for people around here. They were hopin' to be rid of your ass soon."

"I was, too." Nick's voice came out as a lightly slurred whisper. He took a heavy inhale from the cannula before his next words. "Guess they're stuck with me a little longer."

"You need anything, bro? Anything I can do for you while I'm here?"

He shook his head shortly. "How are things goin' on the bombings?"

Catherine had warned him that Nick now knew about the second bombing, and how het up he was about being kept in the dark. He wasn't chancing upsetting his friend now. "There was a third bomb found this morning."

The Texan squinted in concern. "Third?"

Warrick held up a placating hand. "Aborted attempt. Fool messed it up and it didn't go off. Janitor found it."

"You get anything off of it?"

"Not much. No prints or DNA. Composed of run of the mill, easily accessible stuff for the most part. But we'll get him."

The sick man nodded. "You go to Taylor's service?"

"Yeah, I put on a tie and popped in. Wife was doing pretty well, all things considered. You remember Taylor?"

A slow nod. "Played hoops with him. We kicked his and his partner's asses."

"Yeah, yeah we did at that, bro. That was a good ga--"

He was interrupted as Nick hunched over in a coughing fit. When he was done, he wiped the back of a shaky hand across cheeks moistened by tears, then settled back against his pillows, eyes closed as he sniffed heavily at his oxygen.

The oxygen sat level on his monitor was blinking, but silent. Someone must have muted the alarm, the only conclusion that it never would have stopped blaring.

"You really oughta lemme call your folks, Nick. They'd want to know what's going on with you."

"No," he croaked out. "Janey is having her kid any day now and Lorraine is on full bed rest 'til the twins come. They're already spread too thin."

"There are eight of 'em , bro! Add in the spouses and kids and there are plenty of your clan to go around."

"No, Rick. I mean it. I don't want them knowing … I don't want them seeing me like this. My dad's already got high blood pressure. I just …" He broke off again as another bout of coughing stole his voice.

"Okay, okay, bro. Just relax."

By the time he recovered it was obvious that Nick was exhausted. He dragged deeply on the oxygen as he rubbed at his chest around the monitor wires.

"I gotta get back to the lab, Nick. And you look like you could use some shut-eye."

He got a tired nod of agreement in response. "Thanks, Rick. Sorry not best of company."

The taller man rose and placed a hand on his best friend's collarbone, squeezing it gently.

"Hey, boss. Don't worry about it. Just know that we're all pulling for you."

Nick's hand rose to cover his, his flesh radiating a dismaying amount of heat.

"Thanks."

"Think Sara's next up to come visit. Greg'll probably tag along, and I think Brass said something about stopping by with Sam Vega. You okay with visitors or should I tell 'em to hold off a bit?"

"Just warn them I'm not the best host right now," he said, corner of his mouth quirking up, then dropping almost as quickly.

"I'm, uh. I'm still not clear on what happened that night. Doc says it's the concussion. I know what the news is saying, and I swear, I don't know why I chased that kid back in."

Warrick watched in horror as Nicks eyes welled up.

"The TV reporter said he was only 21. It's all just so senseless and I keep trying to remember what happened but it's all just this blur of faces and accents, and then God, the explosion and I couldn't breathe. And it hurt so fucking bad, Rick. I just can't imagine why I did it…"

He broke off with another coughing attack, still trying to get words out in between.

"...tell Grissom… sorry… I fucked up... I'm trying to remember… I can't... I can't... I can't breathe... can't ..."

He started gasping, horrible, harsh squeals escaping from his throat. Warrick reached over and grabbed the button, pushing it for all it was worth, then grabbed Nick by the shoulders, gently shaking him.

"Hang on, Nicky. Hang on. Help is coming. We'll get you through this, bro. I promise. Jesus, I swear we'll get you through this." And he pulled his friend to his chest and held him until help arrived.


	10. Chapter 10

He could smell it. The thirst for blood. The press was a paradox- a hindrance to the investigation, but a powerful pack of animals to control if under the right hand. Lead with one, and you could corral them towards your main objective. Controlling reporters took not just skill but a certain type of personality; to think like them, stoop to their level. Politics was an art and unappreciated if not understood correctly.

It was time to manipulate and shine. Conrad took his note cards, stood to the plate and adjusted the microphone in front of the flashing bulbs. Always stare right in the center; the light didn't hurt the eyes and it made you look at them all. Captain Brass stood at attention a few feet away; always could count on the old boy. Grissom much further, out of reach of reporter ears. He remained ever the statue, face frowning in annoyance, as if this was a waste of time. The man preferred his precious test tubes, which was fine. He didn't have the finesse for this type of work.

He cleared his throat. "I'll make a formal statement, then allow a few minutes for questions." He stole a look to his right, watched as the Under Sheriff shifted uncomfortably. It was a risk to allow questions, but then again, those who weren't willing to take chances were left alone in the dust afterwards.

"Early this morning the Buckingham Bakery was the site of a failed attempt to kill innocent people and spread fear throughout the Vegas area." He paused long enough for drama. "The LVPD's bomb squad secured the device when the detonation trigger malfunctioned. The intent to maim and murder was thwarted by our finest and innocent lives were spared."

He knew how many asses were on the line to be roasted, and could hear the whispered voices of those determined to cover their own bacon against the wrath of an unsettled public. Time to stop playing defense and fight the war on their turf.

"I want to say foremost, that our deepest sympathy is with those who lost loved ones in these senseless acts, and our best wishes go out to those injured."

He made eye contact, steely and serious, connecting to those seeking a face of justice. He could be one if needed.

"And to the person or persons responsible for the deaths of innocent people, I will say this. Vegas' finest police and investigators are closing in on your mistakes."

The varied reporters scribbled in earnest, microphones jiggling, and he felt his heart beat faster. He ignored the deadly look sent his way by the Mayor's office flock of sheep, and his grin broadened at the unease shown by his former rival, Grissom. This is what separated the two of them. He could go for the jugular, needed the give and take of people's reactions to feed off of, while the entomologist felt more at ease around the dead.

Fighting crime meant communicating to the living, even if you stepped on some toes, ignoring a few yelps for the greater good.

"Believe me, you scum. We will hunt you down, track you down like the animals you are. We will make sure you get the needle for your cowardly acts of terrorism. You're amateurs; can't even cover your tracks. The hounds are after your scent."

The pack nipped at his heels, the throng swelling at his tone. He could hear the careers being made and destroyed by his words, but he knew which allies to maintain. He noticed how Captain Brass didn't look at him. He could feel Grissom's eyes; hear those self-righteous gears turning.

The camera shutters clicked, strobe lights muted by the sunshine outside. As the media swarmed, he moved in for the kill. "Whoever is responsible for these bombings will be caught. Your mistakes are mounting, the clock is ticking down. We know the targets are connected by British affiliation and we will do everything in our power to protect our allies and international business investments. Our experts have determined a pattern and we have the material makeup of the last device. This city and her proprietors will not bend to these cowards. "

He stood at attention and waved his hand to signal the first request.

"Mr. Ecklie, has the investigation turned up any suspects at this time?" the Vegas Times reporter inquired.

He smiled at her. "No, not at this time."

"Does the crime lab think this is the work of professional terrorists or international terror cells within the city?"

Ecklie made sure he faced the reporter from Channel Nine. "No, based on the planning and execution of the bombs, we do not think we're dealing with the work of professionals."

"What makes you say that?" the same man asked.

He scoffed. "The second bomb exploded at a brewery that was closed down for clean up, though the time was set during peak work hours. The third bomb had a major design flaw, which prevented it from detonating. We're dealing with someone who acts rashly, goes into areas of low security, and doesn't do deep background work with the targets."

The murmur and chatter increased.

"The first bombing did destroy its target!" a voice in the throng shouted, getting Conrad's attention.

He folded his arms. "Most of the occupants of The George were evacuated by LVPD's finest, preventing major loss of life."

"What about the death of Liam Balfour? The young kid that a witness claimed was chased back into The George by a member of the Vegas Crime Lab?"

His faced twitched and the next set of quiet whispers was those behind him. It was like the gossip of the Lab, only pricklier. The hair at the base of his neck stood on end from the discontent directed at his internal investigation. He'd love to turn around and dare any of them to speak aloud their disparaging thoughts, but this was his moment. There would be a better time to deal with the schoolyard rumor-spreading phone games of his employees.

"We are looking into that account as well as several other sets of witness testimony about the conduct of the members of the Vegas Crime Lab. It is part of our overall investigation."

Smiling for the camera, he pointed a finger at the next rabid dog before another one from the pound jumped up with another PR damning question.

"Is the investigation under local law enforcement or is Homeland Security in charge of the investigation?'

His chest swelled with pride. "We are working together with members of ATF, Homeland, and other agencies with every tool and source available to us. However, this case is under our purview. I have said that our suspect is not considered a national threat, but the work of a lowlife who happens to be able to read things off the Internet."

"One final question," Conrad announced, interrupting the frenzy that had started to get away from him. He reined them in, his temper in check, mother hen Grissom only slightly annoying him with that robotic gaze. He knew better than to sneak a look at his 'support.' They all wanted a piece of him, and they were sorely mistaken if they thought this press conference would spin out of his control.

"Do you think you will have a suspect in custody before another attack?"

A risky move to answer truthfully. "I know the minds in our lab are smarter than our targets. That is all."

He prepared for a deluge of another kind. He'd laid down the gauntlet and now he'd press his team for results. He never made a promise he couldn't back up. As a newly christened Assistant Director he would ensure his Lab came out on top, or use this as an opportunity to make much needed changes.

* * *

It was a good thing that he had the hallways memorized, his feet stepping automatically, just a game of dodging other moving objects. Didn't matter if those foreign things in his way were people. Warrick's thoughts were wrapped so tightly around the memory of being thrown out of Nick's room by the gathered medical personnel that it wouldn't have even registered in his brain if he had barreled over anyone.

The passage of time was supposed to heal all wounds, but it seemed Nick was immune to that old adage. It occurred to him to glance at his pager; three missed calls. Pointless really, considering he was back at the damn lab. It wouldn't be long before...

"Warrick!"

If it didn't have Catherine's irritated tone he might have missed being summoned. For tiny legs, that woman was swift, one hand propped on her hip, the other hand gripping a file. No doubt ready to smack him upside the head with it. Reports he'd forgotten to go over or sign. They all needed a custom stamp now for as many signatures as were required under Ecklie's triplicate memorandum.

He sulked along the hallway, all the warning signs in place for her to recognize and for Pete's sake take heed. Warrick adopted his game face, accented by his other loud as hell nonverbal signals. Catherine noticed them, her gruff, on the prowl attitude dropped for the moment.

"I've been paging you." Her voice was tamer than her body language.

"Been busy," he replied shortly.

His attitude didn't help keep things civil with all of them running on fumes and no sleep. Catherine's posture stiffened but miraculously her tone remained somewhat even.

"Yeah, I know. Visiting Nick." Her eyes softened and for some reason that just made the knot in his gut twist even more. He'd been good at the stone face routine at work. Hell, nailing this bomber had been a calming, driving force; relentless yes, but steady.

It put things in focus, gave life a sense of normalcy. Just another high profile case while racing the clock.

Catherine licked her lips, which was never a good sign, her face flickering in a microcosm of emotions. "About that..."

His body tensed at that hesitancy and he pulled to full height. "Yeah?"

Her fingers rubbed at the manila folder. "Nick's doctor called me. He wants me to contact his folks, said you... you wouldn't do it."

That last broken off bit held a hint of accusation. He heard his back pop as his shoulder blades ground together. "Yeah, that's right. Nick doesn't want his family to be bothered."

"Bothered, Warrick?" She looked at him in obvious disbelief.

"Cath--"

"Don't, Warrick." She held up her hand. "His parents should be here, they have the right to know."

"Yeah, well Nick doesn't want them to know. His family is dealing with a lot of----"

"Nothing compared to not knowing that their son is seriously injured." Catherine hissed.

People were milling around now, but that didn't deter him. "Its Nick's right. He asked me..." His voice lowered, jaw sliding back and forth. "Christ, Catherine, he _begged_ me to lay off. I've had this argument with him already. He's made his choice, now it's up to us to respect it."

She changed tactics, breeching the gap, the mask of anger gone. "He's in bad shape, Warrick. His doctor says this is serious and if they can't--"

"I know that. Hell, I was with him when he couldn't suck in a breath. No matter how much air was pumped in him, he couldn't get enough!"

They had an audience now, his face flushing at the spreading of his partner's woes to the whole Lab, he spun around. "Don't all of you have work to do?" he growled.

The gossipers scattered under his wrath.

Her hand went to his shoulder, trying to guide them out of the corridor and somewhere more private. Warrick stood his ground for the man who couldn't speak for himself. He shook off her intentions. "Nick's going to be fine. Just one more hill he's got to climb. My boy ain't gonna let this keep him down for long. Why don't you give him the benefit of the doubt and stop trying to make arrangements for the worst."

He made her eyes well up, a drop staining her left cheek. Warrick brushed it way, his voice softer, "That his personnel file?"

She nodded, too upset to talk. Warrick reached out and with a slight tug, slipped it out her grasp. Catherine looked him deep in the eyes and allowed it to leave her fingers, a responsibility unburdened from her shoulders.

"We're not going to need this." His voice held an undeniable conviction.

"I hope so."

He dropped the file to his hip. "I know it."

Catherine dabbed at her eyes. "I'm gonna get some coffee before meeting up with Sara for an update on her case."

His brow crinkled.

She laughed. "Hit and run. Crime doesn't stop for one asshole."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "When's our lord gonna have his press conference?"

Catherine snorted. "It was this morning. Gil had to be there."

With the name of their supervisor his scowl was firmly back in place. "Where is he?"

"Grissom?"

"Yeah."

"In his office." Her tone turned suspicious. "Why?"

"Got a bone to pick with him," and he darted down the hall without a word.

He left Catherine with her wheels turning and missed the slithery shadow of Ecklie who came out of his corner after the tense argument.

* * *

The door clicked closed behind him, louder than he intended. Okay, clicked wasn't the proper word. The slam of wood and forceful impact caused every terrarium to rattle. The man that he wanted to gain attention from tore his reading glasses away and knocked his chair back as he rose from his seat. Grissom's blue eyes were startled and he hastily put the phone receiver back in its cradle. Any nervousness created by Warrick's sudden and noisy entrance was now carefully hidden.

His supervisor peered at him, as if reading the emotions he wore like an open book. The stoicism slipped back in place and he casually folded up his spectacles and slouched back into his seat.

"Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

Warrick hated how the man's voice could make him feel like the guilty party. "Yeah, it's about Nick."

The chair creaked as his boss shifted in it, his eyes drifting to an open journal on his desk for a moment than back up to his visitor's face. "I just spoke to someone at the hospital. I know about the pneumonia." His voice was casual, much like when discussing a case.

It deepened Warrick's frustration. "So you know." It was a thinly veiled accusation, even if the supervisor didn't note it.

"Yes, I do." The man was so damn calm, like the object of discussion was a chemical compound.

Warrick erupted, nowhere else to go and especially no one else to vent all his anger and fear to. "And what could you possible know, Gris? Talked to him lately have ya?" He fumed and paced the tiny space in front of the desk.

"I've kept tabs on the situation."

It hurt more than it pissed him off, referring to Nick's struggle as just some issue. "Yeah, right," he huffed.

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "I know they have him on a BiPap instead of normal mechanical intubation."

The use of science and cold hard facts shouldn't have shaken him, but it was still more than he'd known before busting down the man's door. Warrick took a moment to glance at the journal Grissom had been unable to conceal at his abrupt entrance. It was a medical one.

Warrick crossed his arms. "Yeah, and what does that mean?"

Grissom stole a piece of control away, but still exhaled deeply. "It's a less intrusive way to deliver him oxygen. It monitors inhalations and exhalations, then varies its response based on the patient's distress." He paused for a moment reflecting. "A BiPap means less chance of complications."

Although the information both calmed Warrick a little and let him know that Grissom was indeed paying attention, it only fueled his bitterness. "So you know that he's fighting for every fucking breath."

He stared and got no response. "Huh, but as long as you know all about the inner workings of the machine… _then_ you're satisfied."

With no reaction, he really let him have it. "Damn it, Grissom! Have you even been to see him? Take a good look at what a concussive force does to the human body? To a friend you work with every damn day?"

"I've gone there and spoken to his doctor several times." Grissom's tone remained neutral.

"Learn a lot did ya?"

That earned him a reaction. The slow way that his supervisor worked his jaw muscles, choosing words, taking his time. It was the precursor to a full-blown ass chewing or a carefully phrased mind fuck. Gil Grissom was the mastermind of explaining his actions in a way that left you feeling small and incompetent for even questioning his reasons.

"When Nick was transferred out of the ICU, he had a steady flow of people to keep him company. As you like to bring to my attention, my ability to offer comfort is somewhat inadequate." He slid his research out of sight into a drawer and relaxed visibly. "Let's not forget that things haven't exactly been slow around here. During the first twenty-four hours after the bombings I had my hands full."

The excuse battled the voice in Warrick's head that told him it was a reasonable explanation. But it had nothing on his id- the side of his mind that was in the driver's seat, mashing the accelerator pedal. "We all did, and all of us still found the time to make it past the nurses' station."

"I'm more effective by catching the guy who did this. Who killed a bunch of innocent people and whose obvious sociopathic behavior leads me to believe there will be a lot more. It's been simple dumb luck that we haven't dealt with massive casualties on a much grander scale. I think I'd have Nick's blessing to pursue this case in every waking hour until the suspect is caught. Before he maims or kills again."

That little speech knocked him down a peg or two, but there was still a lot gnawing away at his gut. Instead of screaming, Warrick knew a steady voice was more effective with Grissom. He leaned over the desk, dropped his voice an octave lower. "Does that include sitting silently while Nick's name is tarnished by the news and Ecklie's slithering around to try to dig up dirt on him?"

Grissom's brow furrowed, but Warrick wasn't quite done. "Because while the media sells more papers by trying to pin the death of that kid on the back of a man barely holdin' on, Nick has no choice but to believe in all those lies. With no memory of the explosion he's more worried over the fact that you think its true."

"That's ridiculous."

Warrick ran his teeth over his bottom lip. "It may be to you and to me. However, Nick's got nothin' but time on his hands. And my bro has it in that thick skull of his that he _did _chase that kid back in there. And instead of working to get better, he's too busy helping the reaper dig an early Grave."

He straightened to his full height and shook his head. "Nick's a prizefighter, but it does him no good when he's beating up on himself and convinced that your absence supports that screwed up theory."

With anger spent, Warrick turned around to leave the air heavy with his parting words. His supervisor was left blinking in an empty office.

* * *

He stood outside the room, folder beating against his hip in time to the opening measures of the first movement of Josef Haydn's Opus 33, No. 3 in C major that ran through his head. The local classical station, KSNZ, was on of only two buttons programmed on the radio in his Denali, the other being an NPR station.

The entomologist smiled briefly as he recalled how Nick always referred to it as K-Snooze whenever he rode with his boss.

What few understood, and certainly none of his fellow lab denizens, was how perfectly Haydn had written it. In the first three measures, Haydn had, with the simplest means, presented the listener with the primary divisions of the octave in a condensed idea (the fifth, fourth, major third, minor third, major sixth, minor sixth, half-step, and whole-step). In measures four, five, and six, these divisions were simply unfolded with the addition of the cello to the viola and violins that began the piece. It was mathematically pristine, calculated down to the eighth note.

Every note had its place, every instrument held its important role in fulfilling the precepts of the equation. Take violin three out and the whole work suffered irrevocably.

Of course, real life was rarely as neat as musical composition.

There was work to be done back at the lab that needed his attention. Everything needed his attention. Or at least he once thought.

Now he had Ecklie taking the reins on the PR end of things. Catherine had admirably stepped up and stepped in whenever and wherever needed, in spite of the toll he knew it was taking on things with her and Lindsey. Sara and Warrick were taking the initiative on more things, running on results, processing evidence by the roomful, reports landing on his desk hours later and after they were complete and had already been deemed useless.

Even poor Greg, thrown into the maelstrom of multiple bombings, the media eye, and the tyrannical rule of Conrad Ecklie, was emerging as a top-notch CSI. The newbie was earning his wings.

Normally all hands on deck and flat-out running through evidence processing had an adrenalizing affect on the lab. Theories and observations flew fast and furiously, peppered with jokes and jabs, over tables piled high with evidence or empty takeout containers. Heads popped into doorways with offers of help or sharing the newest findings. Second most effective lab in the country, or so they were told. And Quantico had the power and the dollars and the resources of the federal government behind it. They had Conrad Ecklie and a city budget more concerned with building casinos and attracting tourists than catching criminals.

The absence of one of their nearest and dearest was like a black pall, choking back the witty banter and corny geek humor, replacing it with downcast looks and sad smiles whenever a country song came on the radio or they had pancakes for breakfast. The crushing workload and long hours dragged on everyone, including himself, if he was admitting things.

And the rumor mill was churning out bitter grist day and night. There were rumblings that Ecklie was gunning for Nick. Some thought the actual target in his sights was Grissom himself and his precious grave shift. The last wild story he had heard was that Conrad was planning on splitting up Grave and putting someone in charge of Swing. Most likely Sofia, since she was the favored child.

It had never occurred to him that Nick, sheltered, or so he thought, from all the crap going on at the lab, would be tainted by it all. He should have known better. Gossip spread like poison in the waters, and the media fed into it with dubious witnesses crawling out of the woodwork to join in the madness.

There was only one way to make things right. Or at least as close to right as this whole nightmare could be put. He knew his limitations, had told Warrick as much. But this time, he thought he had the problem solved.

The room was quiet but for the mechanical hissing of the equipment breathing life into the man in the bed. Nick lay with his head raised, hands on the bedcovers open as if in supplication.

The injury and illness had taken a terrible toll on him. A week without more than the smallest bites of food, most of that victim to the nausea the concussion had afflicted him with, had the normally bulkily muscled man down several pounds already. His gym-enhanced physique had already done away with most of his body fat, and without that energy source to turn to his body was breaking down the muscle, taxing his already weakened system further. The flesh that wasn't swathed in bandages or gauze was alabaster pale but for the rosy flush of fever in his face and the yellowing purple bruising painted over his left side, his torso and still swollen knee in particular.

It was while he was taking this gruesome and macabre accounting of Nick's physical appearance that he saw the hands twitch and close. At first he put it down to involuntary movement, but then his eyes fluttered open to stare at him. Blinking repeatedly, then squinting.

Recalling that the doctor had mentioned a continued problem in Nick's vision, another concern courtesy of the concussion he had suffered and the damage to his left temple, Grissom stepped closer, realizing that the Texan was probably seeing little more than a blur.

His face obscured by the cumbersome BiPap mask, his eyes were all he had with which to communicate. And what the older man read there knotted his stomach, and perversely cemented in him his relief that he had come.

He read fear and pain and exhaustion. And he read trepidation. The injured man's brow knit in concern at his supervisor's presence.

Taking another step closer to the bed, Grissom offered a weak smile that was meant to offer comfort. But he knew where true comfort lay for the CSI. In answers.

"I want to read you something, Nick." He opened up the plain manila folder, then pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and perched them on his nose.

"This is from Detective Vartann's official report.

_At this point CSI Stokes, heedless to his own well being, re-entered the building, emerging moments later with the remaining occupants. CSI Stokes had managed to get the five civilians from the building safely and was clearing the area when one of the civilians expressed concern for a 'lucky scarf', rushing past CSI Stokes and entering the building, despite CSI Stokes' attempt to stop him from doing so. The building then exploded, causing grievous harm to CSI Stokes and the loss of life of Officer Miles Taylor and four other civilians along with a dozen casualties."_

He closed the folder up with a formal flourish and removed his glasses, as if to remove even the transparent barrier between the two men.

"If you think for one moment that I would take the word of a drunken fool over that of an LVPD detective ... Nick, I cannot conceive of a scenario in which you would deliberately 'chase' a suspect or place them in harm's way. Not even inadvertently.

I never even entertained the belief that you were responsible in any way for that boy's death. And I don't want you to either."

His piece said, he waited to see if his words had made it through to the injured man, if his fevered brain was able to process what he was trying to do.

With a sigh and a nod, a tremendous weight lifted off the older man's shoulders as he saw a single tear course down Nick's cheek, stopped by the horrible, wonderful plastic contraption.

Nick nodded his acceptance, then closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows, his whole body visibly relaxing.

Grissom reached out and squeezed his arm. Bent to murmur in Nick's ear, only loud enough to be heard over the bellows sound of the vent.

"Stop wasting energy on worrying, Nick, and concentrate on getting better. Consider it an order from your supervisor."

Although there was no response from the man in the bed, Grissom left, humming the same measures of the Haydn opus, reassured that things would work out.

Because Nick Stokes had never let him down before.


	11. Chapter 11

Archie pulled out a small stuffed bear with a crooked cowboy hat stitched onto its furry head. He held it up for the ill man to see and Nick's face reddened even more than the slight flush to his pale face. The tech stared at it a moment, laughing a little at how... goofy it really was.

He shrugged. "Wendy thought it was cute."

Nick huffed a little, but a tiny smile curved at the edges of his mouth, battling the insult to his manly pride. He took a drag from his cannula. "Tell her thanks."

Archie searched for a place to put the cheer-me-up and his eyes landed on a perfect space between the railing and Nick's right side.

Brown eyes narrowed at him. "Don't ya dare put it in bed with me."

He was tempted, but knew the hell he'd pay back at the lab once the criminalist returned to work even though the guy couldn't swat a fly if it landed on him. The battle with his new complication had left the man winded and straining on his oxygen if he spoke for too long. Archie had visited for twenty minutes and Nick barely moved a muscle. His face was covered in a slight sheen of sweat, his breathing heavy and wet sounding with every forced deep breath. Nick constantly apologized every time he coughed and his hand weakly tried to rid his face of the perspiration running down it.

Nick was getting better according to his doctor and that stern nurse of his gave the tech an earful about keeping to non-work subjects. The intimidating woman lectured him about a healthy spirit and its healing wonders on the body. Nick was winning the battle over his illness, but the war had cost the man dearly, leaving him utterly depleted and weak. But if you looked into his eyes they didn't just burn with the fever that continued to drain him- they showed a fierce determination to not stay down for long.

Nick was battered, but not out for the count by a long shot. Archie placed the bear on a small table with various other cards and a lone potted plant. He searched around the room for the flowers he knew Hodges had sent anonymously from the "Lab" but didn't spot them.

The patient must have been still a little cranky. "What are ya lookin' for, man?"

"All of your other stuff."

Nick's damp brow crinkled and the tech snorted. "The rest of the gifts people have sent you." He was going to say the past week, but didn't want to remind the CSI of the going on ten days he'd been on injured reserve.

Archie heard a sigh louder than the noises of the oxygen flow. "I...before... before I got sick, I gave 'em all away."

He didn't know how to respond. The gossip mill spun tales of the deteriorating health of the criminalist and yarns of the man's darkened mood concerning the case, though the only real sources of information had been tight-lipped about anything concerning Nick's woes. The protective wall of his Graveyard shift kept mum about any details.

Archie didn't dwell on the subject and rummaged through the large gift bag. He acted the part of Santa Claus by proxy, bestowing gifts from the other techs who had not had time to drop by.

"Well, I got you something that might make time go a bit faster around here."

The Texan perked up at his words as he brought out a new Playstation Portable and grinned in excitement when he handed it to him.

Nick's eyes widened in surprise, shaky fingers grabbing the shiny new electronic device as he tilted it up to gaze at.

"All of us chipped in and got you a bunch of games. It's Sony so, of course, they developed their own medium for movies. These are some UMD discs. Grabbed some Quentin Tartantino and other action flicks. " He beamed and pushed the button and inserted one in.

Nick rested the item on his chest, above the cocoon of bandages that wrapped around him. He flipped on the switch and fiddled with the menu button. "Archie..." The man swallowed, obviously very moved by the gesture. He shook his head. "Ya didn't have to," he rasped, his voice suddenly scratchy.

The tech grinned from ear to ear at his first real feeling of accomplishment. Ever since the bombing they had all been on edge, waiting for the next shoe to drop, or another deluge of bad news about the patient in front of him. When word of Nick's pneumonia had circulated it was like the final straw. The Lab moved in a vat of sludge, everyone snippy and ready to snap at any given moment.

Giving his head a shake, he leaned over the bedrail and navigated the screens a little, talking as he went. "Here's the menu for when you want to play a game or watch a movie."

He noticed Nick's chest hitch a little, his breathing a little more rough. "You okay?"

Nick nodded with his eyes closed. "Just... give me… a second," he rasped, trying to control a jag of thick coughing.

Archie knew the man was still very sick and wasn't sure what to do. No alarms were blaring, no barrage of nurses were trying to drag him away. So he waited while Nick's face slowly became overly sanguine and his breathing labored. Archie's eyes darted around and found one of those stupid, small pitchers of water and poured some into a plastic cup. As Nick hacked, his body twisted to his left side to cushion the obvious pain. He waited with the water, figuring it's what they always did in the movies.

Once the fit was over, Nick slumped back, exhausted. The game device was lost in his lap and his face was the waxen and ghostly image Archie had imagined from the rumor mill.

Archie pressed the cup into a shaky hand. Nick sipped some of the offered liquid and sagged back against the raised part of his bed.

"Sorry," he grated out as he handed back the cup.

Archie smiled. "No, it's cool." He picked up the unit and held it for the man until he was recovered enough to do so on his own. The AV tech carried on as if nothing happened. "Here's something easy to start off with."

Nick squinted at the screen before he recognized the old 18-bit graphics. "Frogger, dude? Come on, this is a new system," he whined.

Archie snorted. "Think I might have some role playing games I could loan you. Maybe even give you my level thirty wizard. He's got this awesome black cloak and ...oh man I just got the Sword of Vermethious and..." Archie stopped when the Texan stared at him. "Um, maybe something like Madden. It's in the bag somewhere."

A wry grin tugged at the patient with the magic words. Archie dug into his stuff and slipped the disc into the machine. Once it was cranked and ready to go, he let Nick have at it. The button tapping and enthusiasm was more than he could have hoped from the visit. Archie relaxed in the chair as he observed a genuine smile upon Nick's face.

"I'm not really good at sports games. Maybe you could give me a few pointers?" Archie waited for a response but got none. "Nick?"

"Huh?" The criminalist barely looked up, totally focused on the screen.

Archie shook his head. "Nothing, man, just not too hip on the football."

Nick smirked. "What's that saying? Football is like porn. It's got action and people can't take their eyes off of it."

Archie grinned and began to add his two cents, when he heard a knock at the door. Some ripped guy who looked like he could have been a quarterback straight outa Madden stood at attention at the front of the bed. His entrance melted the silly expression right off the Texan.

"Hey, Nick."

The Asian stood up and watched the ailing man wilt a little, flipping off the machine. "Time for the ten minute drill?"

The stone faced guy didn't budge. "Got to get you on your feet and moving around a little. No more down time."

Archie wouldn't call Nick's recent bedridden existence a condition he chose. He kept his lips sealed as he gathered his stuff.

The criminalist adjusted painfully in bed. "Guess I'd rather have you breaking my chops than lettin' some respiratory therapist pound their frustrations out on my back."

The poster child for protein shakes began to remove the blankets from the bed. "Nope, you get to do twelve rounds with Lisa _after_ I get you into that chair. I don't want her wearing you down with those breathing treatments until I'm done with you."

Archie wasn't in the mood to watch the type of 'therapy' his friend had been subjected to every day. "Guess you got some warm ups to do before the big game?"

Nick didn't seem amused and the Solider of Fortune didn't react. Archie fumbled with his stuff, putting a few more games on a small end table. "I'm glad you're feeling better. I'll catch you later."

"Thanks for stopping by and for the entertainment." Nick's voice was sincere and meet the eyes of his therapist with challenge. "No pain, no gain. Right, Matt?"

The burly guy quirked an eyebrow as he began to gather up the various tubes. "Hope you had your Wheaties today."

Nick struggled to sit up straight while the PT lowered the rail. "Depends if they have it in this IV."

Archie was glad to hear the up tempo cadence to his friend's voice. He waved goodbye to his buddy and for once would be the bearer of some progress for the rest of the lab.

* * *

"Jaysus, Kev! What'd ya do ta your hand?"

"A feckin' darkie at work messed it up. Goddamned ijit couldn't wait for me hand to get out the way before he fired up the blowtorch."

Michael flinched as much at the racial slur as at the image of his little brother's hand getting burned by an acetylene torch.

"They at least get ya to a doctor?"

"Yeah, yeah. Bernie said the company'd take care o' the bill. That gobshite Tyrone oughta pay for the damn bill." His little brother's icy blue eyes flashed with rage.

He tried to cool the fire the way he usually did—with humor. "Hey, Kev. Just look at it this way—ya got some time off on the company dime. They got Workers' Compensation over here. Pays for you ta be off when you get hurt at work."

He knew the real reason why his brother would truly be angry, and waited to see how much his brother'd reveal.

"Oh, yeah? And what am I ta do all day, huh? Sit around like some blagger on the dole? Like them welfare scum?"

" 's not the same, little brother. Enjoy it. Some of them American soaps are fun. They even have some almost nekkid ladies on 'em."

His brother's glare signaled that humor might not be the way to go this time around.

Kevin fumbled the cigarettes from his shirt pocket with his left hand, then pulled free a small box of matches. He tried holding the box in his heavily bandaged hand to strike the match, swearing when he failed, finally slamming the small box against the wall.

"Fuck! Can't use this hand for nothin'!"

Michael grabbed a lighter off a nearby bookcase crammed with knick-knacks and family photos and old copies of The Belfast Telegraph, handing it to his brother who snatched it ungratefully from his fingers. He flicked it awkwardly with his left hand, firing it up on the third try and sucking greedily at his cigarette.

"How long did the doc say it'd be? Before the bandages come off, I mean?"

"Four feckin' weeks!" the dark haired man said as he snorted out a long stream of smoke.

Michael nodded in sympathy. Then sighed. He knew his brother wouldn't understand—would think he was upset for him. The sigh was in relief. He had four weeks of reprieve. Four weeks to figure out his little brother's next actions and figure out what he could do this time to stop the carnage.

* * *

"Here." A small white towel was thrust in his face. He took it thankfully, sweat pooling on his forehead and stinging his bad eye.

He mopped morosely at his brow, dropping the towel back into his lap and looked up at the blonde goddess in front of him. She was almost his height, when he was standing, that is, all tanned skin and cut muscles. Her hair was bound in a no-nonsense ponytail high at the back of her head. She would have looked more at home in a spandex unitard instead of the loose blue grey scrubs she wore.

"Ya did great, Nick. You feelin' okay?"

He nodded, slightly out of breath. "Yeah, Janet. I'm good."

"You sure? Your knee has got to be barkin' at ya. I could ask Vi to bring ya the good stuff."

"Nah, a buddy of mine is supposed to comin' by later and I don't wanna be feelin' loopy."

"Oookay. It's your call, babe. Alright, let's get you into bed."

"Oh, darlin', you shouldn't tease a sick man like that, he drawled with a smile."

She crossed her arms across her generous chest, tapping a sneakered foot on the tile.

"Seriously. I'd rather sit up for a bit. Feels good bein' outa bed."

Her posture relaxed just slightly. "I know you're frustrated, Nick, but you really shouldn't push it. I let you insist on the extra set of quad lifts but you can't be wearin' yourself out."

"Quad lifts? I'm sittin' in a frickin' chair," he said, shaking his head.

"You lifted your leg off the ground, right? Uses the quads, and you gotta build up the quads to help support your knee."

"Wow, Janet. You sound like a physical therapist."

"Way to use those investigator skills of yours, cowboy," she snarked back at him. "I was thinking of bringing the ankle weights for next time, but if you don't give yourself a chance to heal…"

He nodded tiredly. "I know, I know. Bring the weights. I'll tell Matt about 'em. We can do something else tomorrow."

She leaned back and rested a hip against the bed frame, studying him for a long second. "Before you got hurt you were probably at the gym, what, at least three days a week?"

He nodded. "Did extra at my home gym with a Bowflex. Ordered it off the TV," he said with a small smile. "Works okay for what it is."

"It took you a long time to build up the muscle mass you had. A lot of sweat and effort went into it. Probably changed your diet too, right?"

Another nod, wondering where this was going. Being reminded of how physically active he was before wasn't making him feel too hot.

"So, you can't expect your recovery to be any faster or any less work. In fact, you're starting at a point way lower than you did before your original regimen. So cut yourself some slack, okay?"

He sighed and mopped at his face again. Damn low-grade fever. Just couldn't kick it.

"I just feel like sittin' on my duff isn't getting me anywhere. I'm sweating like I ran the Iron Man from lifting my goddamn leg off the ground."

"You had major surgery on your lung, broke several ribs, sustained a bad concussion, and are barely over pneumonia. Most guys would count themselves lucky to be as far along as you are. Trust me on that. Been doin' this job for ten years now."

"Well, when you read off the butcher's bill like that…" he said, mustering up a smile. "Sorry, just having a little pity party for myself and you got sucked in."

"Well, remember, I know what that bod of yours looked like before the accident. I know what you're capable of, and I promise we'll get you back to ripped in no time. This time next year you'll be ready for the Turkey Trot. Probably kick my ass like you did last year."

"Hey! You still won the women's division. I only placed 17th in the men's."

Underneath the joke he was freaking out. The Turkey Trot was at Thanksgiving. It was only late summer now. And she was talking _next year_. Another year of this? Of pain and weakness and exhaustion? Another year before his body felt like his own again?

He ran a hand over his head in frustration, fingers running through hair grown out from the shorn buzz he normally kept. He grimaced as he looked at his hand. It came away with grit and grime, even little sparkles of tiny glass shards.

He was roused from his inner thoughts as he realized Janet had stopped talking and was watching him.

He squirmed a bit uncomfortably in the chair under her gaze. Knew she was itchin' to try more of her pep talk on him, but he just wasn't in the mood. His knee was throbbing horribly, just as she had said, but he hadn't wanted to admit.

A light knock on the door to the room saved him. A familiar dreadlocked head peeked in from around the corner, eyes widening as they took in the gorgeous blonde.

Nick smiled despite himself at the sight of his oh so cool best friend striding over on long legs to extend a hand in greeting to Janet.

Green eyes on a cocked head looked at him. So obvious.

Nick sighed. "Janet, this is my partner, Warrick. Warrick, this is Janet."

"Very pleased to meet you. Must say you're a vast improvement over the Marine I usually find in here working my buddy over."

She slid her hand free politely and smiled good-naturedly. "I'll make sure and tell Matt you said so."

"Whoa, whoa," the tall man said, hands pulled backing full on surrender. "No need to be telling Sergeant Slaughter anything. We're all friends here, right?"

"Riiiight," the blonde replied dryly. She turned to point a French manicured nail at Nick. "You. I want you to take it easy. I'll bring the weights on Thursday, but I won't promise anything if you're too worn out. I won't play a part in any relapse."

"Scouts' honor," he replied with a smile as they exchanged knowing looks. "Thanks, Janet. For everything."

"No problem, sweets. See ya Thursday. Nice to meet you, Warrick," she said with a nod of her head. She snatched the towel out of Nick's hand as she walked by and out of the room.

Nick waited, mentally counting it out, and three, two, one … "Holy shit, she is HOT!" was the expected comment along with the mimed shaking of burned fingers.

"Nick, bro. You've been holdin' out on me. She is _so_ fine."

"Give it up, Rick. You're not her type."

"What? The tall, dark, and handsome type?"

"No…the type that has a Y chromosome."

"You mean--? Ah, shit. Figures. Damn, she's easy on the eyes, though."

"Janet's an aerobic instructor at my gym. We go back a few years. Won't say I didn't try hittin' that but after meeting her partner, Michelle…"

"Yeah, no doubt." Warrick sat himself down on the edge of the bed, not bothering to hide the appraising look. "You're looking a damn sight better than last time I saw you, bro. Looks like you lost some of your accessories, too."

Nick blushed lightly. "Yeah, they took it out this morning."

"Well, that's good, right? Means you're getting better."

"You'll pardon me, bro, if I'm not doing cartwheels cuz I'm pissing into a bottle instead of a tube."

"Small steps, partner. Long as they're in the right direction."

"Yeah… small steps. Guess I gotta be happy with that. Speaking of small steps… think I could ask you to help me out with something?"

"Anything, boss. Just name it."

"I wanna take a shower."

The taller man looked doubtfully at him. "Nick, man…you sure you're up for it? Maybe I could ask Mrs. Ha--- um, Violet to help?"

"No." Nick shook his head emphatically. "I can do this. I just need a little help." He blushed again, frustrated at the prospect of needing help with something so basic.

"Look. Bed baths and dry shampoos don't cut it. I've been in bed for two weeks now, half of that with a fever. I feel dirty and gritty and I just wanna feel… normal. If ya don't wanna help, I'll just do it myself."

He pulled the IV catheter free, leaving the port in his hand. Then planted his hands on the arms of the chair and made to haul himself up. He really hadn't been able to get up from the chair unassisted before this, but he really hadn't had to until now.

"A'ight! Hold up there, boss. Just … hold on."

Warrick stood, hesitating only a second, then ducked out of the room. He came back a moment later, holding a pile of fabric and terrycloth. "Got ya a clean johnnie and some towels. What you need me to do? I just checked and the coast is clear. Violet's not at her desk."

"Damn, bro. You gonna start humming the theme from Mission Impossible?" Nick said, cracking a smile as he leaned over slowly to unwind the Ace bandage from around his knee.

"I have seen that woman in action, bro. She ran Sunday school when I was a kid. She wielded a Bible in one hand and a switch in the other. Woman's a force to be reckoned with."

"Then I guess we better do this then," Nick said as he set aside the unwrapped bandage.

Warrick set the clean linens down on the closed toilet seat, returning to hold out two hands to his partner. Nick gratefully latched on and between the two men's efforts got him to his feet. He groaned just once at the initial pull on his ribs, then bobbled slightly as he weaved on one leg. He limped over towards the bathroom door, halfway in when he realized something.

"Um, Rick. Need ya to um… I…" He sighed, stammering. "I, uh, can't reach behind me."

The tall man smirked, made a show of closing his eyes, and tugged open the ties at the back of his gown.

Nick slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, leaning heavily against it.

It took him a few seconds to catch his breath, then he used the sink to support him as he hobbled his way over to the shower stall. He turned the hot on as hard and far as it would go, adding only a smidgen of cold, then shucked his gown and stepped under the spray.

The water was scalding hot, and steam quickly filled the little room. He put his head under the water, one hand gripping the metal support rail as he eased his weight onto his good leg.

The water that pooled at his feet was darkened with grit and dirt from his head. The last remnants of the explosion washed down the drain; little bits of The George and other things he didn't want to think about.

By the time the water lightened he was tiring. He was practically hanging from the railing now. A plastic stool sat at the far end of the shower stall. With the last of his strength he pulled it over and collapsed onto it, still staying under the spray.

Able to relax a bit he squirted some of the soap from the dispenser on the wall and lathered up his head and body, his nose assaulted with the sharp medicinal smell of the antibacterial agent in it.

His fingers brushed across the gauze dressings on his chest and arm and he peeled the now water soaked bandages free, the tape loosening easily under the hot water. His incision was knitting well, although it was probably gonna leave a doozy of a scar. Six or seven inches of scabbed over pink ran from below his left nipple down to the side of his ribcage. He ran his fingertips over the patchwork of stitching holding it together. The thread was thick, almost plastic feeling. Not at all as he expected.

At least his arm and face were almost healed. The scabs were coming off leaving shiny pink new skin. Doc promised it wouldn't scar too badly.

His hand rose to feel the matching stitching on his head as he looked down at his knee. It was still very swollen, and dark purple. Dr. Singh had told him that it would stay that way for a long time as the blood absorbed back into the knee at a slower rate than a bruise on softer tissue.

He bent it slowly under the pulsating water, wincing at the pain, but hoping the heat and pounding might loosen it a bit.

The hot water was running out, so he turned off the cold, trying to savor the remaining time. It was the most human he'd felt since the explosion.

No beds, no tubes, no monitors. Just heat and soap. God, it felt so good to be truly clean. Such a seemingly simple thing but as he took in a tentative deep breath of the humidified air and his ribs only twinged, he closed his eyes, almost at the verge of tears. But this time they were tears of relief. Of hope. That he could keep going and be the man he was Before.

Cold water was literally dashed over him as he roused himself where he sat. The hot water was completely gone now and he shivered a bit as the water turned rapidly from tepid to cool.

He reached out and turned off the faucet, then eased himself off the stool, bracing himself in the shower doorframe.

Using the sink as a handhold he shakily made his way the few steps to the toilet seat, lifting the towels and gown before dropping heavily onto the closed lid. He was breathing heavily now and his head was starting to pound in time with the throbbing in his knee.

Sucking wind, he grimaced as he poked his hands through the arms of the gown. His brief shining moment of hope was rapidly clouding over as it dawned on him he may have done too much too soon. As his breathing became heavier the pain in his chest returned and he rubbed at the now gauze-free incision through the thin fabric.

He fumbled behind him, desperate to at least do up the crucial bottom tie, biting back a groan as he stretched his arms and his ribs protested mightily. He'd barely managed to mangle the strands together in a crappy knot when his heart sank as he heard voices outside the door.

One was his partner, stammering like a kid caught shoplifting a girly mag. The other was the voice of Hurricane Violet.

"The Lord gave you that head of ours for purposes other than growing that hair. I know how smart you are, mister, but God help me, you can be so stupid. What were you thinking? - No! No, you weren't thinking.

And that stubborn… Nick! Do what ya gotta do, cuz I'm coming in!" This from right on the other side of the door.

The door swung open and the short woman practically filled the frame. Hands started to place themselves angrily on her hips but her expression quickly softened as she looked him over.

"Well for … you're sopping wet." She stepped over to him, grabbing up one of the towels and started gently squeezing the water from his hair, mindful of his head wound. The whole time she kept up a murmured litany, half consolation, half berating. "Just getting over pneumonia and the man goes and soaks himself. Not enough sense to dry off. Look at you. Shaking like a leaf. May as well leave the dressing off on your incision; it's healing up pretty well now."

She grabbed up the second towel and draped it over his shoulders, then wrapped an arm around his waist.

"Ricky! Come make yourself useful!" Warrick's head popped into the doorframe, his expression almost comical in its sheepishness.

"Come help me get him up," she admonished.

Warrick strode over and wrapped his arm around his partner from the other side.

Nick allowed himself to lean on his partner as the two walked him over to the bed. He sat down heavily, almost collapsing, slumping in place as Violet unwound the oxygen cannula from the wall.

So much for one less tube. She quickly wrapped it under his nose, turning up the flow while he sucked greedily at it.

While he sat and caught his breath the nurse attended to his knee, warm brown hands weaving and winding the fabric back around, pinning it in place with the metal clips.

His partner stood back and watched warily, very obviously staying outa the angry woman's way. She hadn't spoken since her spiel earlier in the bathroom when she'd first entered.

She beat up on his pillows, fluffing them almost violently, and Nick raised 'oh, shit' eyebrows at his partner, who backed up a few more feet.

Violet turned and glared at Warrick, his most recent transgression apparently just still being in the room. She put her hands on Nick's shoulders, half pushing, half easing him back into the bed, pulling the sheets and blanket up to his chin.

She left the room without a word and Nick opened his mouth to say something to his partner when the fireplug stalked back in carrying another blanket.

She laid the new covering over him, tucking him in at his feet and shoulders, then crossed her arms and leaned back to survey her work.

"I hope it was worth it," she said, challenge in her voice.

Nick dragged on his oxygen, snuggling down under the blankets. Warm. Almost comfortable. Heaven compared to how he'd felt before. He sniffed deeply again, wriggling his nose against the plastic tubing, then caught his clean soapy scent.

"Absolutely, ma'am."

She shook her head, her face a mixture of amusement, affection, and exasperation.

"Next time, you ask me. I could've gotten an aide to help you."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, sufficiently chastened.

She patted his arm, tucking the blanket in again around his neck. She laid a hand on his forehead, then pulled a thermometer from her smock pocket and stuck it in his ear. After it beeped she dropped it back in her pocket. "Still 100.1. I'll bring you some Tylenol." Her eye caught the IV tubing hanging free, gave him another glare and pulled his arm free of the covers long enough only to hook him back up.

"You give me agita, boy," she mumbled, then, as she trundled past him, shot another evil eye at Warrick for good measure.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 11 posted last Thursday while site went crazy._

* * *

Half an hour. It had taken him half an hour to walk what? One hundred feet of hallway? A half hour of pain and sweat. Worst of all was the doubt that assailed him with every awkward, agonizing step. Doubt that he was getting any better. Doubt that he was anywhere near close to getting to go home. Doubt that he was ever going to be the man he once was.

He stole a surreptitious glance at the man at his side. You couldn't even tell it was a prosthetic leg under the slate blue scrubs. He even wore a normal pair of Nikes. And there was no perceptible limp.

_Jesus, Stokes. Man lost a frickin' leg. Suck it up. You got a bad knee is all, ain't even broken._ Course the ribs and his head were a horse of a different ball game.

He expected the continuing pain in his chest; having your ribs broken and spread apart by steel jaws so the surgeon could get at the hole in your lung would do that to you. But he'd gotten banged on the head before and had suffered through a few days of headaches and nausea and the occasional dizzy spell. But this… it had been over two weeks and his vision still blurred, he was still sick to his stomach more often than not, and the dull throb in his noggin was still frickin' there. It ebbed and flowed, along with the rest of his body's aches, with his pain meds. But it was always there. Nagging. Annoying. Disconcerting, more than anything. Like a high-pitched sound you could never find the source of. Like the squeak in the dashboard of his truck. He'd had it into the shop a couple times and the techs always looked at him sideways when he tried to describe where it was and what it sounded like. They'd never found the cause, and after squirting in foams and replacing belts, it was still there, under the purr of the engine. Under the music on his radio.

He stopped, Matt's hand gripping his bicep as he wavered. The ex-Marine gestured towards a bench off to the side but Nick waved him off impatiently.

He took a pull from the oxygen tube under his nose, Matt (correctly) insisting that he use the portable tank during his therapy. The small canister hung from the shorter man's shoulder in a nylon sling.

"You sure are one stubborn sonofabitch. You sure you weren't a Marine?" the therapist asked. No smile cracked the stoic façade but after all the time spent together Nick had learned the soldier's sense of humor, even as rarely as it appeared.

"It's the hair. I get that a lot."

"That hair's not regulation anymore, soldier," Matt replied in a drill sergeant's voice. "I'd be glad to bring my clippers along next time." The gap-toothed smile appeared like the sun peeking out during a cloudy day. There and gone.

Nick ran a shaky hand over his grown out hair. Almost a half-inch long it felt. It was clean, thanks to the daily showers he'd pestered Violet into letting him have even after his less than illustrious first go at it. And it was soft, like a kitten's fur. The spiky buzz was gone. Seemed appropriate somehow.

"Nah. If I decide to buzz it I don't wanna short my barber his seven dollars. Man's the last of his kind. Need to keep him in business."

The therapist nodded in solemn agreement. "Something wrong with paying $25 in some fancy chick salon. Just not right. So. You ready to get moving again?"

Nick sighed. Guess that was the end of the man's tolerance for conversation. "Yeah, let's go."

They made their way painstakingly back down the long set of halls. This time was an even slower go and it took them almost 45 minutes to reach his room.

"Home sweet home," the Texan cracked sarcastically. Then drew up as he saw his partner sitting in the chair.

"Hey, bro! Look at Mr. out and about! Hey, Matt. How's it goin'?" He tossed a nod at the now expected presence of one of the two therapists. "How's my boy doin'? You got him doin' calisthenics yet?"

The ex-Marine assumed his at ease stance but didn't move from Nick's side. "He's doing well."

Warrick stood with a smile at the not-exactly-exuberant reply to get out of the way, most likely assuming that Nick was going to take the chair where he usually sat.

"No, no, I'm good, Rick. Take a seat. Think I'll just stand for a bit. Feels good," he lied. He limped closer, trying to hide the tentativeness of his steps as he made his way over to stand next to the bed.

His partner raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, it's your call, bro. You're the one shufflin' like my Grams without her walker." He bent over and picked up a large shopping bag from the floor.

"Brought you some of the stuff you asked for. I know you asked for sweats, but I got these instead …" he said as he dug his hands into the paper bag. He pulled out a pair of navy nylon track pants with zip off legs. "Thought you might have trouble getting that new brace of yours to fit under the sweats so I figured you could zip off the one over your bad knee."

Nick took the clothing with a grateful smile. "Thanks, bro. Good call. This thing is bulky as hell," he said, looking down at where the heavy black Velcro and nylon contraption holding his knee in place peeked out from beneath the hem of his gown.

Warrick looked at him appraisingly. "Dunno, boss. I'm thinkin' I coulda gone with your old sweats. You've lost so much weight I bet they'd be baggy enough now. But," he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, "Doc Brown's got the fix for that, too." From the bag he pulled two large Styrofoam lidded cups with wide straws protruding from the top. "Two shakes from Audrey's Ice Cream Emporium. Chocolate malt and chocolate mocha. Double thick. And I had her mix protein powder into 'em."

Nick shook his head in disbelief. "Aw, Rick. Ya shouldn't have. Man, we haven't been to Audrey's in months. Think we stopped off there in July, right? After that MVA? Standin' on blacktop, hundred plus heat, sun blazin' on us for like nine hours straight."

The tall man nodded. "Yup. I remembered how nice and easy they went down. Figured they might do ya good now."

"Damn cool of you, man. Really. But they tell me it's hotter than Hades out there. They gotta be melted slop by now."

"Please, son! Don't underestimate the wiles of Doc Brown. I put them on dry ice back at the lab before I came. They are solid as a rock. Figured by the time you were ready to settle down with them they'd be read' to go."

"Guess you thought of everything then," Nick said with a smile.

"Oh, I'm not done yet, bro." He reached back into his bag of swag and pulled out a black plastic box with an earpiece and handed over.

"Well shit damn, Warrick. This iPod musta cost a fortune. Is this—is this the kind that holds videos?"

The tall man's face split into a huge white smile. "It is indeed, my friend. Had Bobby load it up with twangy shit for ya, and had Archie put a buncha Cowboys games on it. Figure even though you might not have much longer here, you can use it at home while your ass takes it easy on the couch. And it cost me nothing. Judy started up a collection at the lab. Once everybody ponied up there was money for the iPod and quite a bit left over." He pulled out a fat envelope from his back pocket and tried to hand it over.

Nick eyed up the package but didn't take it. "No. No, man. I don't need it. Insurance'll cover me 'til I'm back to work. Do me a favor and give that to whatever fund they have set up for Taylor's family, okay?" He started handing over the music player too.

Warrick quickly sobered, pulling the envelope back and sticking it in his pocket. "Yeah, if that's what you want, bro. But keep the player. It's already got all your country shit on it. No one's gonna want it now," he said with a small smile, trying to bring some levity back to the quiet room.

Nick answered with his own soft smile. "Yeah. Wouldn't wanna inflict my 'twangy shit' on an unsuspecting public. You know, I listen to stuff that doesn't have banjos in it, too, bro. Thanks, Rick. I mean it. It's real cool. You know, you guys already chipped in for the PSP that Archie brought."

"He told you we chipped in for that, huh?"

"Yeah, that's what he said. Why?"

"Huh. Nothing. Little geek just surprises me sometimes."

Nick nodded his head. "Gonna hafta have a talk with Mr. Johnson about savin' his money. He has a trip to present a paper comin' up he's been saving for. And you know Ecklie won't be ponyin' up anything for that."

"True that, partner. True that."

Nick placed a hand on the bed frame, trying to hide the amount of support he needed. His knee was halfway to giving way and the dull throb in his head and chest had been growing exponentially as he stood talking. He darted a quick look at Matt who to all appearances was in his normal relaxed stance but Nick could sense the man coiling like a snake, ready to act if Nick were to fall. It was something he'd grown to count on over the last couple weeks.

"So. What's the word on when you're gettin' sprung?"

He wrapped his hand tighter around the bed frame, easing his weight against the bed. Unfortunately, it was his left side leaning and it placed more pressure on his bad knee. He took a drag off his oxygen, no way to hide it, but he was feeling light-headed and it was that or pass out completely. He kicked himself as he realized the other reason Matt was sticking so close. He had the oxygen tank.

"Finally got Dr. Singh to use the 'D' word this morning. Said I might be lookin' at a discharge in a few days, good Lord willin' and the creeks don't rise."

"Your doc said that?"

"Well, not the last part, no. That's just my way of not temptin' fate. Seems every time I think things are gettin' better, somethin' else pops up is all."

"Damn! And I'm supposed to be the superstitious one. Nick, man. Nothin' else is gonna 'pop up'. Not with ole Doc Brown catchin' your back. 'sides, I'm tired of workin' with Sara and Greg, man. Sara's on some new 'natural energy' kick. Keeps tryin' to get me to drink this seaweed and habanero extract concoction. And Greg's just…Greg's just Greg, man. Hard to take in big doses, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah," Nick answered with a small smile. "Yeah, I guess I do."

His knuckles whitened on the metal frame as he shifted his weight once more, trying to find a comfortable stance.

Matt took a step forward hands still clasped behind his back. "Nick, you want to, um—"

"Yeah. Yeah, guess we do have time for one more circuit, Matt. Sorry, Rick. Matt's got other people to see and I wanna do another lap in the hall."

"Oh." Warrick rose to his feet quickly. "Sure, no hey, I understand. Just happy to see you doin' so great, partner. Don't lemme stand in your way. 'sides, we gotta get you back in shape. Been feelin' the need to open up a can on the courts. Figure I bring your slow ass in, wipe the boards with ya, then you and me can take on some of them other fools. They'll take one look at that fragged up leg of yours and figure us for easy pickin's."

"Sounds like a plan. Thanks again for all the stuff, Rick."

"No sweat, bro. Be glad to get back and tell everyone about your progress. We're all rootin' for you, ya know."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks."

He waited while his partner shook Matt's hand, gathered up the now empty shopping bag and re-folded it and stuck it under his arm. Waited while Warrick decided not to bring home the shopping bag but to throw it out instead. Waited while he folded up the track pants and placed them on the chair, the small black iPod on top of it.

Then he returned the small wave and smile as his partner left the room.

He gave himself another ten seconds just in case, then felt his legs begin to fold beneath him, Matt catching hold of his arm a heartbeat away from him hitting the floor. The therapist's hands gripped him tightly, easing him the few steps closer to the bed so Nick could sit down.

A few deep inhales, then he nodded as Matt switched out the connection from the bottle to the wall valve. His fingers gripped the side of the bed tightly as he fought to stay vertical, his eyes squinched shut against a dizzy spell that had his head and stomach on the spin cycle.

"Another lap?"

He opened one eye to see Matt had raised one very Grissom-like eyebrow.

"Yeah, maybe not today," he coughed out in a short laugh as he continued to fight for air and to bring the pain in his head and knee back down to manageable levels.

"Any particular reason for the charade? He's your partner, right? Why wouldn't you want him to know the truth?"

"You heard him. All the talk about how great I'm doing, how everyone's 'rooting' for me. He's makin' plans for basketball games for cripe's sakes. Don' wanna bring 'em all down. Let 'em all know I still need so much help… how weak I am."

"Strength is more than physical. Sometimes it takes strength to admit when you need help."

Nick smiled. "You hear that during your own therapy?" he asked, glancing down at the soldier's bad leg.

The sun came out – the briefest flash of smile split the slab of marble face. "Nah. Dr. Phil."

* * *

"Okay, so you don't smoke, and you're not in the Lab anymore---" 

"For now," Hodges added.

Wendy just tilted her head, sending the man a scorching look and he backed down. She sipped on her Fuji water and adjusted her back against the wall. "Anyhow, before I was _rudely_ interrupted… I was just wondering if you were lost or confused."

Greg shrugged and blew over his steaming coffee. "It's better than working non-stop."

"You do have _your _peopleto hang around with now," the cranky tech added again.

Bobby snickered as Wendy sauntered over to Hodges. "All you do is try to cramp people's style since you don't have one of your own." She raised an eyebrow. "You're the nosy old neighbor who can't put their binoculars down."

"Come on now, Hodges, leave Greg alone. He just can't kick the bad habit of hanging with us measly lab rats," Bobby put in. He looked over at Greg who realized hanging on the roof was a lame way to get away from the crabbiness of the job.

"Its just so… tense. Their definition of a coffee break has no meaning anymore. And everyone's wound up so tight. I'm just waiting for the next war to break out." Greg frowned, sipping his caffeine fix.

Mia waved the air front of her at the smoke from Wendy's cigarette. "Well, with the way King Ecklie has things running, I wouldn't be surprised if he started charging us for our own supplies."

"I heard Catherine and Grissom go after each other in his office," Archie offered, speaking up for the first time.

Greg rolled his eyes as the others agreed to that bit of news. "They've been sniping at each other a lot lately," the CSI in training offered.

"That's what happens when there's a mad bomber on the loose and the number two lab in the country has bupkes on it," Hodges chimed in with his perky assessment.

All eyes glared at him. The king of snark didn't shrink away. "Don't blame the messenger, but it's plain as the writing on the wall. You've got some super spy woman from Britain sniffing around with Grissom laying down the red carpet for her. The backlog of cases is growing faster than some of Grissom's experiments. There's no real physical evidence, no motives, and no witnesses."

"Nick saw someone," Greg defended.

"Yeah and I'm sure his brain has been thoroughly scrambled by his flight through the air." Hodges backed down when he knew he hit a sore spot. Trying to save face he asked, "Does he remember anything else about it?'

"No one talks to him about the cases. Something about keeping his mood positive," Archie offered.

"But, he's getting sprung in a couple days," Bobby added glancing around. "I mean he's better now."

Greg gripped his cup tighter. "That's the word. And no. He doesn't remember anything."

"Hope he's back on his feet before Ecklie tries to replace him."

"Now that's low," Wendy snarled at Hodges.

"Why does everyone get pissed off at me when all I mention is what I hear around?" Hodges defended.

"The guy was hurt on the job and almost blown to kingdom come. Not to mention that the way the walls talk, people say it's Ecklie's penny pinching that didn't allow them to clear the scene fast enough," Bobby growled, a rare sight to see the typically good-natured man so up in arms.

"I thought people were still talking about that kid and how Nick---" Archie caught his fumble. "I mean I know Ecklie has been going through of a lot of Nick's old cases. He's still trying to dig stuff up."

Mia got to her feet and brushed her pants legs free of dirt. "If Grissom had any balls he'd launch his own investigation into it."

"From what I can tell, Grissom's got enough to worry about. He's already painted a big target sign on his chest with his constant clashing with Ecklie. Seems the only discussions in the lab are their arguments. Grissom seems to be hiding out in his cave more than ever," Bobby added.

All eyes turned on Greg. "Don't look at me. I'm not privy to anything. I'm like the lowest notch on the totem pole. They ask me to fetch and I ask what and where."

"They've been giving you a shit ton. Like I said, with all the unsolved cases mounting, I don't see any reprieve with you guys being one man down."

Greg glared at Hodges. "We'll make do. If it we means we all do doubles in a row for the next month, no one's going to complain."

Hodges shrugged. "It's just you look like crap and the other members of Grave can't run off of fumes all the time."

"Hey, Nick's coming back as soon as he can. No one's going to try to replace him." Archie stood next to Greg who seemed like he was about to lose his cool.

Mia blew out a breath. "I've got to disinfect my hands before returning. You guys keep doing your impersonation of the Golden Girls." She wandered off seemingly disgusted with the turn in the conversation.

Archie wrapped his lab coat around himself. "I just hope we catch this guy. The more time passes, the worse things get around here."

Greg looked at his drink in dismay. "I can't even remember what normal was."

The rest of the group finished their drinks or blew out the last of their smokes and silently went back inside.

* * *

Every Christmas when he was a kid, he would venture out of his room at the crack of dawn with his brother and sisters to hang out at the stairwell. No one was allowed to go near the actual steps leading down. They held back near the railing in the hallway, each one daring the other to try to inch close as they could and sneak a peek through the spindles at the lower level. This was, of course, a fruitless endeavor, because at the angle and how the steps curved, there was never a real way to gain any hints at what waited in the massive living room. 

That didn't stop any of them from fighting to get a glimpse at the tree, even if it was only the reflections of flashing lights off the far wall. Every year, each sibling took a turn trying to steal any hints of what waited below. Even though none of them liked getting up early for chores or school, this little rule had no meaning when it came to Christmas Day.

As the baby, he got teased the most and at several urgings would quietly tiptoe near the banister. He'd keep his body flat to the ground and crawled forward like a solider under barbed wire. Slowly he'd clamber until his face poked as close as he dared around the corner. Try as he might, he never saw anything of value. It didn't keep his over imaginative brain from _thinking_ he saw what lay in wait.

No matter what, the butterflies in his stomach kept him on edge in excitement all night. He never slept a wink. Often his parents would scold his tomfoolery with fake-stern voices to go to sleep. He would sit in bed until called down to see what Santa had brought them. He was prone to over eagerness, listening for any hints on top of the roof for reindeer, or sleigh bell sounds outside. He would get up every few minutes to take a look out the window, then run back to bed and pretend to be asleep when his mother poked her head in to check on him.

Anticipation was the worst and most blissful thing in the world. It didn't help that Cisco would sometimes climb the roof and stomp around atop the house to send the kids' hearts racing.

Much like the ninety mile an hour beating that hard working muscle did now. He waited in a chair, away from the dreaded prison of his hospital bed of... over three weeks? Had it been that long? His brain calculated one when he got hurt, another when he got sacked with pneumonia and the last days of trying to recover from the entire ordeal.

He turned his hands to stare at the bruises covering his wrists from all the bloodletting he'd been subjected to.

He checked the cheap wristwatch that Vega had bought him from the gift shop, noting only two minutes had passed since the last time he stared at it. Every set of footsteps near his room held him in the grips of anxiousness, but they never emerged as those of his lanky partner. Warrick had seemed just as thrilled as he was about being sprung. It was only a few hours ago, when he was feeling edgy, that he had called to double check about his ride. His partner had teased him about being happy to hand back over the chore of feeding his fish to simmer his nerves.

He wanted to pace, but that was near impossible and he wiped sticky palms over the new track pants. The knee brace was going to take some getting used to as was the rib splint that felt snug around his chest. At least it wasn't too bulky under the red cotton T-shirt. The odd sensation in his belly he attributed to nerves, not only from the excitement of finally going home, but with that small voice that admitted he was entirely too high-strung.

He relished the memory of those late December mornings. The emotions were the same, but the circumstances much grimmer.

After all this time he was would be finally free. Strangely, he felt like a circus performer over a tightrope, never quite knowing if the net would hold his weight if he fell. His twitchy hands went from wearing away spots over the slick fabric of his pants to gripping the chair handles tightly. He actually startled when someone entered his room.

Violet grinned like the cat that ate the canary. "Well look at you?" His caregiver and lifesaver bounded in with a glee in her eyes and a wicked grin. "Nice to see you in normal clothes, babe. And how handsome you are... if only my sister were here."

He chuckled and looked down at his state of dress. "I'm not sure if I'd win any fashion awards. Maybe just one for bumming around the house."

"Oh, shucks, babe. That's all you should be thinking about for the next few weeks," his nurse admonished, a bounce in her older step as she got closer.

Without warning she lifted up the hem of his tee, despite his attempt to brush away her hands.

"Oh, stop it. I'm allowed to fuss over you. Just making sure you don't have this too tight. The Velcro is adjustable."

"You just can't keep your hands off me," he joked and got treated to a stern expression that melted into fits of laughter for them both.

Violet finished fiddling with the elastic. "You don't have to keep this on all the time. Just when you're feeling pain or gonna be moving around."

He smoothed down the cotton and nodded like a dutiful son. "I know. Don't overdo it at first. Be careful stooping or bending and no lifting anything heavy."

He gave her his best charming smile, expressing every intention to behave. The older woman smirked. "Oh, honey, I have no clue why you don't have women banging down your door with that sweet charisma of yours. I swear, you have to have a bat hidden somewhere to fend them all off with."

His cheeks began to redden at her comments.

"I don't know about swarms of them, but Nick has quite a few fans. He's just too busy staring down a microscope to notice."

He was surprised to see Sara standing in the doorway, her gap toothed smile a rare sight these days. Before he could ask the obvious, she stepped into his room, answering his question before the words escaped his mouth.

"Warrick's pretty steamed he couldn't come by. He's stuck on a triple that started off as suspicious circs." Sara made her way over and didn't hide the fact that she seemed well aware of the nurse's eyes evaluating her. "So, I'm your taxi today."

Violet winked at him and he bowed his head laughing, knowing exactly where her mind was at the moment. No doubt trying to find a way to send him off on a date. He cleared his throat. "Thanks, Sara. Just waiting for the Wizard."

Before he could go on, the blue fabric-wrapped head of his physician bobbed in, just like he did whenever there was something crucial. Dr Singh really was like the great man from Oz. Though this time he was more Santa Claus, even if his beard was the wrong color. He had the power of his _list_. Nick's medical chart was the magic paper that he prayed had his name in the 'nice' column.

The Indian hid all emotions under wire-rimmed spectacles and searched Nick for some hidden sign, ready to give him the gift of freedom with just a voice and signature.

"I have something for you, Mr. Stokes." The man smiled and to his amusement the doctor came bearing gifts, but instead of a red sack of goodies, Nick was handed a wooden cane.

"You'll need this for some time. It will allow your body a bit of reprieve." Dr Singh waited for him to take the aid.

Nick examined it like any new tool. He swung it in the air getting a feel for it and reluctantly brought the rubbered tip to the floor. He eased himself into a standing position, hobbling a bit once his full weight was on both limbs. The doctor observed him, dark eyes examining every intake of breath, every movement.

Even Sara seemed to tense just slightly as if the passing grade wouldn't be given. His doctor cocked his head to one side and stroked his beard. "Okay, Mr. Stokes. One final set of instructions."

He felt a great weight lift from his shoulders, but gave the man the attention he deserved, even if he knew this drill.

"I won't bore you with telling you to take it easy; that goes without saying. Keep to your PT schedule. Take your pain meds when needed. If you do anything that really hurts…" The man paused. "Then don't do it any more."

Nick smiled despite himself. "Yes, sir."

His reply didn't seem to contain the secret coded message required. His physician thinned his lips. "Learn the word relaxation, Mr. Stokes. You're not in the same peak physical condition you once were."

Nick tried to take the man's words in stride, even if his thoughts were less than pleasant.

"A couple of years ago, when you cracked a couple of your ribs, I'm sure you were up and about after a week . Am I right?'

Nick began to feel worn out already from standing in one place this long and the guy wanted to make sure he knew that he was indeed a fixer-upper and not a new model fresh from the showroom. "Yeah. You could say that."

"He was in everyone's hair about being on light lab duty. By the end of the week you were back on in the thick of things," Sara piped in.

Dr Singh nodded as if expecting that answer. "Cracked is one thing. You broke your ribs in multiple places this time around and suffered thoracic trauma. Be careful and don't undo all of your progress and my colleague's fine work with your lung. Deal?"

"Deal," Nick answered soberly.

The dark-skinned man smiled. "Good. So, drink plenty of fluids and eat a lot of protein. And whenever possible keep to those deep breathing exercises."

He nodded and the man went on with a long grocery list of instructions. Ice and wrap his knee. Keep to his check ups and visit his regular doctor whenever needed. Then the man took a deep breath and the butterflies of Christmas made his belly grumble with a slight bit of dread more associated with foreboding than anything.

Sara was held in rapt attention and Nick knew if she could, she'd be scribbling down notes. His knee began to wobble and his body ached to sit back down. He remained in a standing position as he waited for some kind of bad news.

"Now, I want you to shed all those, how do you say... _macho_ walls one more time and pay attention."

Dr Singh became very serious again and Nick felt his throat itch just a little.

"The brain is a wonderful and mysterious thing. You got knocked around a bit when you were younger, sports injuries and all. Such silly American pastimes with contact sports. Why kids these days don't just play soccer..."

Nick refrained from any ironic comments and stood mum as the doctor continued.

"You had a concussion a few years back and the serious head trauma you sustained this time around will be a tricky thing to follow."

Nick felt the urge to lean against the wall and all the goofy remains associated with boyhood dreams got swept away in the consequences of the here and now. Sara crossed her arms and waited like him for the next shoe to drop.

"Life isn't like the movies. It's harder to bounce back from a second or third concussion. I want you to be aware of episodes of dizziness, nausea, headache, and vision problems. These things are normal for several weeks or months after another blow to the head. Don't let it frighten you, but if it persists for a while after you return home, then make sure you keep your primary physician informed."

Nick felt his stomach drop, the very idea that he could have repercussions that could last longer than any broken bones petrified him. He swallowed, but nodded. "Post-concussive syndrome. Yeah, I've heard about it."

"Good." The doctor patted him on the shoulder. "Take it easy. Let this pretty little lady take you home and eat a good meal," the man laughed.

The doctor made his way out and Nick didn't budge as his line of vision filled with the bulk of his guardian angel.

"Now come here, sweetie, and give me a hug." Violet wrapped arms that had held him during some of his darkest moments around his shoulders and he embraced her as best he could. "I don't want to see you in here ever again, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, throat suddenly dry.

"Be good, Nick, and do an old lady a favor and stay out of trouble. Let someone look after you for a bit. The Lord has too many things to do. I don't think he wants to have to watch you so carefully next time. Bother Ricky if you need help."

He managed a mangled, "Thank you," as his voice hitched a little. She patted him on the back and took one more appraising look. "Such a shame you have no one to go home to, babe. If that don't change, come visit me. I'm sure it won't be a bother at all to find you some sweet nurse around here."

He smiled and Violet made her way out the door. In the middle of their goodbye Sara had taken a corner of the room to give him some privacy and an orderly must have dropped off a wheelchair for insurance reasons. He could see someone pacing outside his door. How'd he miss that?

Sara chided him about his annoyance at being pushed down the halls, the poor orderly all but dismissed as they reached the exit.

"I parked really close," Sara pointed to her Volvo. "On second thought, why don't you sit tight and I'll bring the car around."

"Its fine, Sara," he tried to assure her. To prove his point he slowly got out of the wheelchair and stood up to show her he wouldn't fall down. "I've walked a lot farther in my therapy sessions," he reasoned.

She hemmed and hawed like a worried mother hen as he began the tedious process of walking across the parking lot, leaving Sara no other choice but to hover right next to him. He felt good, being outside, working out the kinks from being cooped up for so long. His body felt like it had been wrung out and beaten on unmercifully, but he was moving and that was pretty sweet.

He leaned on the cane, his limp not too terribly bad and the support was for both his healing joint and whole aching left side. He felt Sara's hand brush once or twice along his back, obviously too fearful he'd trip on something. He wasn't angry at the gesture and he knew full well he'd be overly looked after for some time.

As they reached the truck, his brain sighed in relief. He'd made the short walk with no issues, but damn was he already tired from the excursion. As he reached the door, Sara fumbled with her keys to twist open the lock. He waited patiently as her fingers bungled a little, smiling as normally steady hands finally found the right one to insert.

As he waited the world suddenly tilted. He grabbed the side of the car as the weightlessness of swimming under water assaulted him. Between leaning on the vehicle and his cane, he remained on his feet, and verified that Sara hadn't noticed. She had already yanked open the door and turned to him with a sheepish grin.

He smiled back and squinted when her lips moved, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. The seesaw that he was on dipped and up and down. Sara mouthed wordlessly at him and he looked at her with a straight face. "I've got it."

She smiled at him and moved to her side of the car as he held on for dear life. He managed take a seat as the sounds of the engine roaring to life startled him.

Dragging his legs inside, he grit his teeth just a little when he settled into the cushion. His left side protested the jostling of his body, but he still managed to pull the door shut. He racked his brain over what the hell had just happened. He was so lost in perplexity that he didn't even protest when Sara actually reached over to buckle him in.

"I know a pharmacy with a drive thru we can hit first. After I drop you home I'll swing by the store for some bare essentials."

He blinked at her, but nodded, wetting his lips. "Yeah, thanks. Don't buy tofu, okay?"

She rubbed his arm with a smile. "No problem."

He switched on the radio station and the music lulled him into relaxing a little. The pain pills he had taken an hour earlier had kicked in and before they made it to the pharmacy he was fast asleep against the window.

* * *

A/N: 

Even if the site doesn't send out alerts. We still post every Tuesday and Friday. Thank you to all our loyal readers who have stuck by us.

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

"You do understand the basic mathematics behind equations, don't you, Gil?" Conrad didn't bother to wait for a response, wanting to avoid a historical dissertation on Greek math and its origin.

And his subordinate didn't even notice the dismissive wave, the Bug Man too busy nibbling at the edge of his reading glasses' ear piece. In fact, once he stopped to observe, it was obvious that Grissom's attention was elsewhere.

Again.

Figured. The AD didn't have more than two legs; maybe if he crawled around on the floor he'd beep on the man's radar. Or if he replaced all the insect food with rat poison, _then_ he might witness a rare display. Conrad wandered over to a glass container filled with _something_, who knew what the hell it was under all the sand and mulch. He dug into his trousers pocket and fished out a coin, then tapped on the terrarium.

"There's nothing inside there. I moved _Cicindela theatina _into a larger area."

Conrad closed his eyes and shook his head. Of course he moved it. Though he did get the great one to speak, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and spun on his heel. "Ten percent."

Grissom raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his swivel chair.

Spoon feed those who are less inclined, he told himself. "That's the number of percentage points Grave's solve rate has dropped the past four weeks."

"Conrad, if _you_ do the math, then you might want to take in to account the greater number of cases we've encountered versus last year. If you double-check your data and adjust your ratio correctly, then we've only fallen two percent."

If only the man wasn't so smug. Conrad plowed ahead as if the solve rate wasn't up for debate. Both men knew this wasn't what he came in here for to begin with. It just gave him pleasure to throw every feasible number out there to see if the supervisor _did_ keep up with everything.

"The Lloyd case. I haven't been informed about your progress."

Grissom sat up straighter. "Everything is pending Trace's results and they are backed up as usual."

"What? You can't e-mail me your most current write-up?" He stared when he just got the typical Gil Grissom blank response. "Witness reports? Background checks?"

"Not probative without anything physical to match up with it. _You_ know that," Grissom fired back.

"Doesn't matter. It's protocol to send those to me."

"Is it?"

He leaned over the desk, his grin icy. "Same one for the past few weeks, not that you've even noticed the last dozen or so memos. The overtime logs are late, your caseload is close to topping a hundred, not to mention Sander's monthly evaluation is overdue. And your supply order is over budget."

The corner of Gil's lips twitched, an earthquake on the Richter scale for the man.

"We've never had monthly write ups on an entry level CSI before, especially one who hasn't passed all of his proficiency tests."

"It's new. Get used to it."

The indignation was quite satisfying. Conrad could go home a happy man, if it wasn't for more pressing issues. "And what about the detailed analysis on the third bomb?"

Grissom spun around his laptop. "Typing that up for you as we speak."

"I'm here now." Conrad wouldn't even drop any comments. He wondered if typing was now a telepathic power since it was obvious it hadn't been what the supervisor had been doing when he entered.

It was business now and Conrad was anxious to hear any kind of progress.

Grissom folded up his glasses and Conrad was impressed that all the findings were memorized. He never doubted the man's tenacity.

"As you know, we narrowed down ammonium nitrate as the main compound and diesel fuel as the hydrocarbon used to make the mixture." Grissom's posture relaxed as he processed the data in his head. "We know from the nitrogen purity that it's not based in fertilizer."

Conrad's heart picked up speed. That was more than he had during his boastings at the news conference. No doubt his added zeal placed upon the shoulders of his team had worked.

"Go on," he encouraged. Grissom did tend to zone out from time to time when that brain of his was already three steps ahead of his mouth.

"The type of grade is consistent with gas generators." The older man locked eyes with his boss. "It was most likely used in automobile applications."

"Air conditioners perhaps?" he postulated.

"Good guess." The supervisor slouched back into his chair. "More like that used to produce propellant for airbags."

"And you've run down the number of potential factories in the area." He calculated the odds in his head as he waited.

"There are several major auto manufacturing plants in the Vegas area including GM, Ford, Dodge and Mercury. We've got Brass, Vega, and Vartann all doing legwork, while Greg is digging into the most recent background of each one. Employee walkouts, strikes, complaints, injuries. Anyone who might send up a red flag."

"You're looking at all nationalities?"

Grissom actually looked offended. "Yes, Conrad. Despite learning that the regally named Buckingham Bakery is actually a Japanese-owned concern, we're still batting around the connection with British ties, but we're still blind to what it could be."

"What about Ms. James Bond?" Conrad asked, checking his back to see if the old bat was behind him. Everywhere he turned, there she was peering around him, or picking through his files. He had to muster up a smile and practice his curtsies around her. The White House was breathing down his neck about extending every courtesy. A personal favor for old W himself.

Bloody political ties. Conrad shook his head. Christ, now he was using her jargon.

"Ms. Lovejoy actually shed her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and cracked open her Power Mac, trying to lend Greg a hand with his background checks. She has a list of possible candidates, terrorist cells, and any other person with a grudge who could be operating stateside if..." He swallowed. "_If _the suspect even has a past to track down. Something about this case... about the man's modus operandi doesn't smell professional."

"Well, maybe if you keep your nose to the pavement longer you'll pick up his scent. Incomplete suspect profiles don't catch the bad guys. Dig deeper, Gil. Find something useful." Conrad leaned in closer, invading personal space. "Where's that sanctimonious Graveyard miracle machine?"

"It's one crucial cog short."

He felt justifiably slapped, backing away from now darker, steely eyes. "Yeah, well, I was thinking about that."

Did the room just grow colder?

Grissom rose from his chair, arms crossed in front of him. "And what exactly were you thinking?"

He didn't bristle. "I'm thinking of moving someone from Days to Stokes' spot. Help you guys out while he's on leave."

"No."

Did he just hear that? Conrad opened his mouth, tongue clicking. "Now, Gil..."

"Absolutely not." Grissom moved from behind his desk, taking up the side of it now.

He sighed. "We're talking temporary. Give you a hand when you're one down."

"There's no such thing as _temporary_ shift assignments, don't give me that line." Grissom's face flushed red.

Conrad Ecklie would not be intimidated by an underling. "Things can change. You guys are not a permanent fixture around here. People move."

"Not mine."

He arched an eyebrow, tucking away that tidbit for later. "Your team is exhausted, they need the help. You think of that?"

"Play games all you want. Act like a bull in a china shop, shaking things up. But don't take away something from a man who has scraped tooth and nail to keep his head above water. Nick Stokes isn't a pawn of yours to push around some twisted little chess board of power."

Grissom brushed past him heading towards his closed door. "He's my CSI and he deserves more from a superior who only sees percentages and solve rates."

Conrad didn't have a chance at a rebuttal before the next testy tirade.

"I know you're trying to soil his name. I know you're doing everything in your power to muck things up, to polish that shiny gold star somewhere. But know one thing. Grave isn't picking up some Conrad Ecklie stooge. We'll work as hard as needed until he comes back."

Gil Grissom opened the door wide, and pointed to the hallway. "You know your way out."

He was duly cut down and Conrad took his leave without another word. One day soon, Grissom would learn what battles he could win and which ones he was bound to lose.

* * *

"I'm thirty three years old and have been livin' on my own for quite some time, _mom._" 

"I'm well aware of that."

"I know how to cook," he countered during which the pages of the phone book were flipped despite the arguing.

"This looks promising."

Nick's jaw dropped just a little as he was being systematically ignored. He rubbed at his temple. "I do my own laundry and the dry cleaners I use is right up the street."

A red manicured nail flipped to the next page, ticking off advertising. "Oh, bachelor pad services. This is definitely what you need."

"Catherine..." His voice held that edge and finally her nose poked out from under the yellow pages.

"They even cook meals and run errands if needed." She pulled out her cell phone and began to punch the buttons.

Exasperated, he grabbed her hand. "I don't need a maid."

"You grill, Nick." Catherine rubbed her hand over his knuckles. "Very well," she added with a smirk. "But your cupboards are bare and Hamburger Helper and heated TV dinners are not the healthy building blocks that I think your doctor had in mind."

Before he could open his mouth she was already silencing any further arguments. "All that delivery crap on your speed dial is not an option, either."

"Sara went shoppin' for me a couple days ago." Okay it was a lame excuse because there was no way that his vegetarian friend would go near a meat counter, so his supplies were meager at best.

Nick knew he supplied additional ammunition for her overprotective nature just from his appearance alone. One of the larger pillows of his sofa was cradled along his left side out of pure habit. His forearm was covered in pink on one side and the faded yellows of bruising everywhere else not marred by his impact with the pavement. The swelling around his eye and face had gone completely down at least. He sported a pink scar like an accent against his still pale complexion above his left brow. He did find some satisfaction in shaving the other day, sporting mostly smooth cheeks.

His visitor had popped over after he had just attempted to rearrange some of the cold covered dishes people made for him in his fridge. He still sought the right amount of balance involved with his restricted movements. Trying to learn how to use his cane, while avoiding the very acts of twisting and bending that were on the Do Not Do List was easier said than done. He never knew what muscle groups were involved in the simplest of movements, until every single one of them protested at once, adding to the singing chorus of his mending body.

The phone picked that moment to ring all the way in the other room, which for as slow as he was on his feet might as well have been miles away. In his haste to grab it before the machine caught it, he had dropped his cane. Without thinking, he bent over to retrieve it instead of squatting and sent fireworks up and down his left side. By the time he did hobble painfully over towards the shrilling, his voice mail picked up the yammering of a telemarketer.

Catherine chose that exact moment to knock. When he made it over to his door, his swollen knee reminded him that it hadn't been iced yet. He huffed away heavily like he had just run a marathon after the race for the phone. Catherine alarmed by what she interpreted was some torturous effort to _just _answer the door, wrapped an arm around his waist unnecessarily. He applied too much weight on his cane for his liking, his range of motion reduced to zilch. The rib splint did little to alleviate the extra strain and they made turtle-like progress back to his sofa. The permanent wince and sudden grab for the pillow to brace his side had started Catherine's search for some _help_ around the house.

The issue over contracting a domestic attendant was tabled for the time being. Catherine switched tactics, entering his kitchen like she belonged there, as she pulled out some of the food he just spent way too much time organizing.

"I can use a microwave," he drawled then grumbled under his breath as he rose slowly to his feet, his right arm instinctively wrapped around his body.

He relied on the stupid freaking cane too much, he chastised, his elbow of all things sore from the weird redistribution of weight. It was a miracle his hip hadn't begun protesting as well, with the extra force upon it with every step. By the time he eased his way into his chair by his small dinning room table, a plate full of food he didn't want to eat was shoved in front of him.

Nick had to remind himself that this was what people did when feeling out of control by another 's pain. Violet's words of advice and forewarning about his stubbornness echoed in his head.

Ten minute later he managed to shift around the green beans and assorted vegetable mush buried in breadcrumbs.

"It's not that bad, Nicky."

He looked up, blushing wondering if he had just zoned out again. He'd been doing that lately; missing stuff. "No, it's just..." He took a swig of tea and swished around the supposedly sweetened drink, but it didn't do too much for his palate.

"That's why I think you could use a hand. Maybe have someone make some of your favorite..."

He dropped his fork a little too forcefully than intended. "Cath."

"What? If it's the money, I can help you out while you're drawing disability..."

Now that word stung and he slid the plate far away, doing anything but look at his colleague.

"It's not a dirty word," Catherine said, trying to reason with him.

Mindlessly he rubbed at his chest, not aware he'd been going over the area of his incision. "I know. Sorry." He laughed in spite of himself. "It's weird."

In his peripheral vision he caught sight of blond hair being fluffed back, his long time friend's voice softer. "What is it, Nicky?"

Now he sighed, having built up something so trivial. "It's bland."

He felt ridiculous staring at the table. Feeling nervous he looked up and saw his co-worker just stare at him, her own fork in mid-air.

"Dinner is..."

He felt like a whiny kid, bitching about everything. Catherine must have sensed his mental ass kicking so she glanced down at her meal. "It could use some more oregano or something."

"Nah, don't worry about it. Must be used to hospital food. Once my brain re-connects with real taste, I think it'll be cool." He tried to relax, but the hard wooden chair wasn't made for still knitting bones.

With less fuss thankfully, the two retired back to the plushness of his sofa, two pain tablets of relief now making their way through his bloodstream. After an hour of watching an X-Files rerun the busy single mom fretted over the time, offering apologies for rushing off. His heavy eyelids were causing him to drift away no matter the attraction of Gillian Anderson.

It was easier to move, the pain receptors number, and movement didn't jar or strain as much.

He rose stiffly from the couch and walked her to his front door, helping her on with her jacket. She stared at him, a hand on his shoulder a bit longer than needed. This was the first time he had seen her since the hospital and he hated the fact that he was the cause for this formidable woman to be so unsure about leaving him alone.

He wanted to remind her that he'd been a solitary person in Vegas for years. "I'll call you if I need anything."

Those words seem to relax her, and he was glad he could think enough through the haze his mind was currently in. He could tell that Catherine was trying not to view him as the broken man he was just a few weeks ago. He was about to make a Humpty Dumpy joke, when his brain filled with static noise so loud he froze.

The floor didn't seem to be down anymore and the room spun around in circles. His hand found the wall and he leaned between it and the meager support of the cane. He felt a squeeze on his arm and once again felt stuck in some Twilight Zone episode. Catherine was obviously talking, but she looked like an actress in a silent movie. Lips moving. No sound.

"Be careful drivin' home," he thought he said, the words formed by his mouth but to his ear, not vocalized.

Cath's hand still lingered on his shoulder and he saw the concerned, questioning look on her face. "I'm fine, just twisted my knee."

To prove it, he hastened her out, despite a lurch in his stomach. He leaned his weight against the door jamb as he watched things on mute, lifting a hand to wave goodbye. Catherine hesitated but he conjured up his most annoyed expression and she turned to walk towards her car as he fumbled with closing the door.

As the door latched shut behind her the world whipped back into full 5.1 surround sound. His ragged breathing was the first thing his ears registered and he was strangely comforted by the sounds of his harsh intake of breath.

He shook his head lightly, then limped his way back to the couch, sprawling out across all three cushions. As he draped an arm over his eyes to shield it from the light he felt disheartened… maybe Catherine was right. Before he succumbed to sleep, he had already pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He wasn't going to be dictated by some lingering problems. Nothing was going to distract him from his recovery regimen. Especially not some stupid bouts of dizziness.

* * *

_A/N:_

_Thank you for all of you who have been supportive of this piece. We read all of your comments and it means a lot to us. Satisfaction comes from seeing this project when its complete, but authors really do relish the nods of encouragement after so many hours devoted to something. We still have half a story to tell, so for those loyal few, thank you very much._

_As always Tuesday/Friday Updates._


	14. Chapter 14

The day before had been rough. Hours of physical therapy had left him sweating and sore didn't really begin to touch on the pain he felt in just about every muscle, ligament, bone, and tendon. Ice and half a Vicodin had beat the pain back a bit, but it left him achy and uncomfortable and groggy enough to set his already precarious balance off. The first fall he had been fortunate enough to catch himself on his kitchen counter. It hurt, but it could have been way worse. The second had him lurching against a doorframe, his healing ribs taking the brunt of the impact. Ten minutes later he managed to stagger back to the couch to wipe the moisture from his eyes and fumble the cap off the Vicodin bottle. When Catherine called he didn't brush her off when she offered to stop by before shift. And when she showed, he didn't bother trying to hide how bad off he was, although he did lower his eyes when he asked for help to the bathroom. Between the cane and leaning on her petite form, they'd made it, and he'd mumbled a thanks as he shut the door behind him.

Catherine had been quick to pick up on the hint when he'd emerged later, shrugging off her help this time as he limped his way back to the couch. He sat heavily, eyes glaring at the dark TV screen in front of him. He'd grunted out a few non-committal answers to her questions aimed at small talk and his well-being, then shook off the gloom long enough to apologize, and thank her for her assistance. She'd given him a smile and a pat on the shoulder like he'd gotten for weeks from nameless hospital staff, but she left, and that's all he'd wanted.

Sleep had eluded him that night. He couldn't find a comfortable position in his bed, and the pain pill wasn't heavy enough to knock him out.

When he saw pink tint the light sneaking in around the corners of his shade he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

It was just as well. He figured he needed to re-start his third shift clock. Well…that was a stretch, he admitted to himself with a disdainful snort. Wasn't like he wasn't gonna be off still for another few weeks. And that was IF he completed his PT to the point where Matt and Janet gave a satisfactory report to his doc. AND if his doc was willing to clear him, even after that. A few more days like yesterday and he'd be having his doubts.

He'd wandered into the stall, grateful Warrick had insisted in buying him his own stupid plastic chair for the shower, cane left propped against the door. Twenty minutes of hot water seeping into his sore muscles and warm soothing steam filling his lungs had set his head on a bit straighter, then he'd dressed in a pair of his baggiest jeans, after re-wrapping the brace around his knee, and a soft cotton long-sleeved v-neck tee over the chest brace. He'd learned his lesson the day before.

After sneaking a peek from behind his blinds and seeing the sky now coming on in full sunrise he limped out to the kitchen, slopped a teaspoon of instant coffee into a mug, turned his kitchen tap on as hot as it would go, then filled the mug with it. A splash of milk later and he had a really bad, lukewarm after the cold milk, cup of coffee. Wasn't the first time he'd slapped together something palatable enough to ingest, just for the caffeine, and probably wouldn't be the last.

He clomped out on to his front porch, the thunk of his cane echoing on the wooden boards. A moment later he was sitting on his top step, perfect, center-row view of the sun coming up. He wrapped his hands around his warm mug against the chill in the air. October had brought a cold snap, wiping away any vestige of their Indian summer.

Sunday mornings used to be his favorite time. When he actually got to come home for them, that was. Too often, Sunday mornings just became one long-ass extension of Saturday night. A Grave shift that didn't recognize the sunrise when work piled up. Vegas was a 24-hour town, and much as there were no clocks in the casinos, there were no clocks for Vegas' finest.

So on those rare occasions that they finished up at the end of shift he would unload from his truck wearily, dragged down by the emotional and physical toll the job took on his no longer twenty (hell, thirty) year old body, and collapse himself onto his porch stairs. He looked forward to the new day wiping his psyche clean of all the shit piled on it from the night before.

The neighborhood he lived in was quiet. Far removed from the hustle and bustle of the Strip. He had few neighbors; in fact there was more unsullied green than there were people. And the one neighbor he had, he adored.

He glanced at the cheap watch Vega had bought for him that he'd taken to wearing. Was as good as any, and it was a gift so that counted for something. Mrs. Douglas from across the road oughta be … and here she was, right on time, emerging from her front door. Sunday morning Early Bird service at Bible Presbyterian.

A still vibrant woman in her sixties, widowed a few years back, Dorothy Douglas locked up her door and as she turned caught sight of him sitting on the porch. She'd already been by to visit, dropping off fresh-baked sweet rolls and a chicken-broccoli-cheese concoction that she said would put some pounds back on him, so she shot him a smile and a wave, gesturing at her watch with an apologetic look.

He smiled and waved at her; he knew she was getting there early, as she liked to sit next a widower she'd taken a liking to. They always went out for coffee after service and last he'd heard, the guy had actually asked her out on a 'real date' as she put it with a girlish smile and a light blush. Nick had given her a congratulatory 'you go, girl' which had made her blush more.

She climbed into her pristine white '85 Ford LTD and he returned his gaze to the sky. It had taken on the candy-colored hues of a roll of those Smarties candies; pastel purples and pinks, oranges and yellows.

He sipped at his bitter cup of instant, sitting for a few minutes, when he realized he'd never heard his neighbor's car start up. He looked over to see that she was standing, bent over, her hand fishing around at the front of her car, apparently for the hood latch.

He got up slowly, setting down his coffee, and made his way slowly across the empty street into her driveway.

"Hey, Mrs. Douglas. Car problems?"

She looked up at him, harried expression on her face. "The darn thing won't start; won't even turn over."

"Well, lemme take a look for ya. Car in this kind of sterling condition, gotta be something simple, I'm sure," he reassured her with a grin. He knew she babied that car, one of the last things left of her husband. The car was a cream puff; the proverbial only takes it to church on Sundays kind of car.

"Oh, no, Nick. God, you're barely out of the hospital. No, I ---"

"Mrs. D? Please. It's just looking at your car. I'll be fine. Please. Now back up. I don't want you getting dirty."

She gazed down at her vanilla woolen suit and smiled gratefully. "All right… but be careful, and _don't _hurt yourself. For Pete's sake, I'd never forgive myself."

He slid his hand under the cracked hood, fingers finding the latch quickly and raised the hood.

Okay. Modern cars had hydraulic lifts for their hoods. The hood weighed a freaking ton. And he forgot they also didn't have the automatic supports; he had to brace the hood up with one hand while he pried up the iron rod and maneuvered it into its corresponding hole. All the weight was bearing down on his left arm. Had to be the bad one.

He finally got the support in place, then dashed a reassuring (he hoped) smile at his neighbor while he took in a few shaky breaths through the ache in his ribs.

After composing himself he ran a mental checklist over. If the car won't even turn over, then there's no spark. No spark means the battery. A quick inspection of the battery showed him the problem.

"Cable's come loose, Mrs. Douglas. It's all corroded here and there's no real good place left for it to attach. I can get you reconnected and back in business, but you need a new battery and cables."

With the underside of his tee he wiped some of the rusty corrosion away, then snapped the connector back into place.

"Try it now, Mrs. D."

She got back in, turned the key, and the car fired up on the first attempt. The engine purred- not so much like a kitten but like a really big lion, all eight cylinders running smoothly.

Seeing the huge smile on her face gave him a stupid burst of pride. For the first time in a long time, he'd been the one helping someone else out.

But then his neighbor turned the car off and got back out. There was a look of …embarrassment? on her freshly powdered face. She mashed two pink frosted lips together as if working up the nerve to ask him something.

"What's up, Mrs. D?"

She closed her eyes as if in inner debate, then popped them open. Blue and firm as she reached her decision.

"I don't have triple-A. I let the darn thing expire because I was getting tired of wasting the money every year." She sighed with a small laugh. "Guess they taught me, huh? Anyway… I'm afraid if I get stuck not being able to start the car after service, before I can get it over to the garage that I won't be able to afford a tow and then the man I've been seeing will just think I'm after his pension."

He laughed at her spiel and her seemingly insane jump in logic. But then, didn't everyone have fears of how they will be perceived, irrational as they may seem to others?

"You wanna use my truck?" he asked doubtfully as he cocked his thumb back at his Dakota. She was five nothing, if that, and he tried to picture her clambering up into the seat, toes barely brushing the pedals.

She chewed on a Maybelline-covered lip briefly. "Think maybe you could accompany me to service? Pastor Bob keeps 'em pretty tight in the morning. Half the congregation is barely awake as it is. We'd be done in an hour, I promise."

An hour sitting in her car, comfy plushy seats, listening to the radio. Yeah, he could do that.

"Sure, Mrs. D." He contemplated briefly heading in to change into nicer clothes but at his pace it'd take him half an hour there and back. And no one'd care what he wore sitting in the car…

He limped over to the passenger side and lowered himself slowly into the seat, pulling the heavy door shut with nary a creak. Yup, a real cream puff.

They made small talk on the way there and pulled in to see a few other late stragglers entering the building.

He eyed up the outside of the church. White clapboard. Pretty small for Vegas; must have been one of the first built. Every time the front doors opened organ music drifted out into the chilly early morning air. With the car turned off and her door open, the car was cooling off quickly, and he cursed himself for wearing only the one layer.

He couldn't very well run her car for an hour, and the building looked warm and inviting. His pondering must have been visible because he looked up through the open door to see his neighbor smiling and offering to have him join her. He looked down at his less than nice attire, and began to demure.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Nick. The Lord doesn't care what you're wearing. I only wore the suit because it's warm and Daniel likes it," she said with a small blush. "C'mon. Listen to some talking and some pretty songs. The parish sprung for padding on the pews last year," she said with a laugh. "All our old bony butts needed it!"

He chuckled and hauled himself up out of the car, snagging the cane from the back seat. "Okay," he told her. "Only it's been more years than I care to admit. So poke me when it's time to stand or kneel, okay?"

He offered her an arm and she gave him an up and down look, taking it, and the two leaned on each other, doing the old folks' shuffle into the church.

They were the last in and the remarkably young-looking pastor had already begun the opening ceremony. They took the last two seats at the back of the church, Mrs. Douglas giving a small wave to a man in the middle who had turned with a relieved look on his face at their entrance. Nick nudged her and smiled and his neighbor blushed a deep pink. And play-shushed him with a hand on his arm.

There was singing. And standing. And then sitting and listening. The small church was warm as he had hoped; maybe a little too warm with all the bodies crammed into it. When it came time to kneel he made a noble attempt, stopping at Mrs. Douglas's raised eyebrow and gesture for him to just sit tight.

He closed his eyes and listened, feeling warm and drowsy. She was right. The padded pews were nice.

Then the pastor announced that next would be a reading from The Bible. Nick listened with half an ear, tired eyes scanning the old-fashioned stained glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross.

"_In the land of Uz there lived a man whose name was Job. This man was blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil," _the priest began.

Then Pastor Bob told the story of Job, in plain and simple language, of how a righteous and holy man whom God decreed would have his faith tested in order to settle an argument He had with Satan, was put through more trials and tribulations than anyone could imagine enduring.

"First his possessions and livestock were destroyed, then his servants, and finally his beloved sons and daughters. He never lost his faith.

Then at further prompting from Satan, Job was grievously hurt, and still would not renounce his faith.

'_When Job's friends heard about all the troubles that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathize with him and comfort him. When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.'_

His friends visit him on his sickbed, attempting to talk to him about what he'd been going through, but they had no real understanding of it, and didn't have the right words for him.

They tried for comfort and only made Job feel worse.

They offered a fix to his problems when all he wanted was their support.

They offered advice, when all he wanted was their ear.

They were well-intentioned, but we all know where that leads us, right, folks?"

The pastor waited for the laughter to subside and began again.

"Job felt his faith slipping and he cursed the day he was born.

Job said, 'I _have been allotted months of futility, and nights of misery have been assigned to me. _

_When I lie down I think, 'How long before I get up?' The night drags on, and I toss till dawn.'_

The Lord realized that His most faithful lamb had been pushed too far. That Job, not being Divine, had too small a knowledge of God and His plans and His motivations.

The Lord came to Job in the form of a whirlwind, and talked with him and opened Job's eyes to the world around him that the Lord made. He showed Job wondrous beasts, faraway lands, and asked Job, could he have made these things? Could he handle the responsibility of all of their lives as the Lord does? And Job recognized what the Lord was trying to tell him and fell to his knees to beg forgiveness.

The Lord restored Job's home, and possessions. He gave Job a whole new family, and wealth beyond imagination. He also rebuked Job's friends, but Job spoke up for them, and asked the Lord to forgive them as well, for he believed their hearts were in the right place, and their efforts were…well, yeah, well-intentioned."

The parishioners chuckled again and Nick found himself laughing with them, totally immersed in the young pastor's sermon.

"God agreed with Job and forgave his friends who joined Job in the rest of his peaceful, prosperous, happy life.

So what are we to take with us from this? I believe that in times of pain and sorrow and grief. In times when everything seems grim, when all the cards seem to be stacked against you, they might be, especially in Vegas."

That had the congregation snorting and there were still giggles as Pastor Bob continued.

"In times where you wonder, how am I supposed to make it just one more day when my suffering is sooo hard? Reflect on how bad Job had it," he said with a smirk, "and depend on your friends, but not too much, because they may not be up to the task, but they'll be there any way. And reflect on the wonders all around you. This is the day that the Lord has made. And while this particular day may not be the best you've ever had, rejoice in the knowledge that it IS."

The people in the pews nodded approvingly and there were many 'Amens' expressed. Then a longhaired wisp of a woman came out with a guitar and began strumming out the opening refrain of "Trading My Sorrows".

Nick glanced at his watch and saw that the hour was almost up, and he'd barely even realized it. Mrs. Douglas was singing to the rafters.

The song ended and everyone stood, and Nick fumbled for his cane as he rose, barely making it up in time to realize that everyone was kissing and shaking hands and hugging. He shook a few strangers' hands awkwardly, then felt the paper-thin skin of his neighbor's cheek as she pressed it against his and she whispered a "Peace be with you" in his ear.

He smelled the lingering Corn Silk powder clinging to him, and realized that yeah, he could do with a little peace. And this morning had him off to a good start.

* * *

Archie replayed the Quick Stop footage once more and froze the image right on the muzzle flash. His finger tapped a button and frame by frame crawled by as some poor elderly man behind the counter was thrown several feet further than he'd ever seen from a handgun. He rewound the digitized film over and over again. His computer enlarged it and added layers of resolution until the image was clearer, but the end result was always the same. Bad angle and no snapshot of the robber. 

"Wow. I identified the slug Brown dropped off for me, but had to see the result for myself," a soft southern accent whistled in awe.

The AV tech swiveled around in his chair, glancing back and forth between his LCD and the laid back ballistics expert. "At least you have a bullet. I've got nada on the shooter's face. Don't know what idiot wired the security camera like that."

Bobby fully entered the room, eyes still transfixed by such force. It was a shame that while normally away from the blood and guts, even the worker bees became desensitized to the carnage of crime and still stared like kids in a candy store at the physics.

"It won't be hard to track down the piece used. If you can't tell, that poor guy was cut down by a cannon."

Archie popped out the digital tape and scribbled in his log. "That's good, because after an hour of fooling around, I still have six other cases to go over." The tech glanced behind him and grinned. "So you gonna just drool over there or are you going to share? What kind was it?'

The Georgian's eyes twinkled, delighted to talk shop a bit. "That's a Browning M1911. Heavy .45 caliber and one hell of a handgun to pull on a simple robbery. It's way expensive and no doubt stolen."

"Not the type of pistol for your run of the mill hold up," Archie chuckled. "Yeah, I bet that'll help in tracking down things. Easy enough to look at recent home invasions and lists of stolen weapons."

"I'm gone a little while and you two become CSIs in training?"

Both techs turned at that familiar twang and jumped to their feet at the sight of Nick leaning against the door jamb. Both men converged on their co-worker, each ready to give a warm welcome back. When it was obvious of the other's intent, both geeks froze mid-hug. Now everyone in the tiny room was aware of the attempted non-manly gestures and the techs smiled sheepishly. Nick took it all in stride and settled for handshakes all around.

Archie beamed goofily as the three of them fumbled for a start to their conversation. Again, they both had the same thought, sharing it when they asked at the same time.

"So, how are you doing?"

They were a chorus now... how cute.

They smirked and laughed at each other while Nick chuckled along with them. "Maybe I should hold up a sign with my standard answer."

"Bet you've been asked it a few dozen times since you entered the lab," Bobby offered.

"That would be an understatement," Nick drawled as he adjusted the weight from his left foot and placed it more heavily on his right one.

Archie noticed how much the muscles in Nick's arms quivered under the strain as he braced one hand on the frame and the other on his cane. He immediately offered up his chair. "Why don't you take a load off, man?"

It was nonchalant enough, he told himself.

"Thanks, boss." Each step was calculated and slow. Nick's face was lax but with an obviously practiced kind of ease. Archie wondered how often he did that in the mirror until he learned how to hide his discomfort.

The man's jaw clenched and he had to grab a hold of each chair handle to meticulously lower himself into the seat; no amount of charades could hide that. "To answer your question, I'm sore, but fine."

Archie noted the criminalist's heavier than normal breathing began to even out, no doubt from the workout of navigating the endless halls of the Lab on less than full power. The AV tech was happy to see some strength had returned to the man. During his last visit with Nick, the CSI could barely hold onto a game system with shaky hands.

"Everyone out?"

"Yeah, on some case or another. I think Sanders and Brass are on their way back from a meth lab bust but the rest of Grave is scattered," Bobby answered.

Nick seemed a little disappointed but not entirely surprised. He thumped his cane almost unconsciously against his thigh.

"You still sleeping a third shift schedule?" Archie fished for conversation as he leaned against a section of his workspace. Nick never used to slouch yet he seemed unable to sit up all the way vertical.

"Hospital sorta screwed me up but I found myself driftin' back to it. Can't shake that kinda thing after so many years."

Reports of Nick's appearance had to be all over the place by now. David Hodges sauntered in like a bloodhound tracking a fresh scent. Nick looked only mildly amused by his entrance.

"Well, look who's back." Hodges strolled in with an extra obnoxious spring to his step. "The Lab is bustling with news of your return."

"Nick's company is a welcome and happy change. But he's not the Messiah, David."

Everyone in the room turned to see Mia with her head poked in. "Nice to see you again, Nick. Maybe we can do lunch next week. Got to run though, only got a sec, results hot of the press."

The whirlwind was gone and Nick's confused reaction still seemed lost over the words _lunch_ and _Mia_ in the same sentence.

"Did she just ask you out on a date?" Bobby lips curled into a devilish smile. "Well, I'll be."

Archie simply gawked, his admiration for Nick jumping a few more levels. Damn the guy could get action when he was out of it. "Be sure to share the details."

For his part the criminalist appeared to think it was some sort of joke. All three men gaped at him like guppies and he shrugged. "Don't ask me. Didn't think she dug public places like restaurants."

"Think she meant dinner at her place?" Archie asked excitedly.

"Lunch, she said lunch," Bobby corrected.

"Guys," Nick shook his head. "No one said it was a date."

"That's what you said about that Day's fingerprint analyst. What was her name?" David chimed in.

Nick didn't have a reply.

"Yeah, too bad she transferred out a few weeks later," Bobby said, winking at the rest.

"I'll bet Wendy'll be jealous," Archie said slyly.

All eyes were on Nick who squirmed under their collective mischievous glares. The criminalist was reduced to silence.

David Hodges however was never left in that type of state. "Soooooo, I bet you're here to stomp out all those rumors." Before allowing the man to respond he walked over and patted the CSI on the shoulder and addressed his fellow co-workers. "Can't keep a Texan down."

"What rumors?" Nick stared at the tech, his tone suspicious.

Archie watched the grip on the cane tighten, face drawing with tension. It dawned on him that Nick might have caught wind of the ugliness over the incident at The George, but not the other nastiness circulating around. Hodges was such an idiot.

"Nothing to worry about." Bobby smiled, then glared at Hodges, no doubt trying to find a way to use him as his next ballistics test target.

Stupid platitudes were useless and Nick looked even more disagreeable, his eyes on the bearer of bad news. Hodges had the dignity to at least look uncomfortable.

"It has nothing to do with Ecklie's investigation," Hodges blurted out in haste as he folded under the scrutiny of his colleagues who were not happy with the change in topic.

It was scramble time because no one doubted Nick's intuition. The team would never let him know about all the political posturing, which unfortunately included the A.D.'s digging into Nick's background and other sinister-like actions. That didn't mean that the Texan wouldn't unearth all the bodies, so to speak, given the tiniest clues about battles fought over him behind closed doors.

Archie shot to his feet. "David's just talking about how everyone here had you in their thoughts. You're lookin' good." He knew it was lame, but he wasn't lying. Nick could stand to add on some pounds and a little more color, but for someone who went mano a mano with a bomb, the guy was in super shape.

Nick was one of the best CSIs around, and he wasn't easily fooled by the diversion tactic. Hodges, however, was just that stupid sometimes. "Yeah, boss. Does this mean you'll be returning to duty soon?"

"No hurry though," Bobby blurted out.

It would appear to his audience that Nick felt the need to practice his interrogation techniques and his notorious stern expression. He rose to his feet, limped over to Hodges, and sunk his fingers into the man's shoulder with a vice-like grip.

"Spill it, Goose," he growled.

David flinched, _ow-ing_, his voice an octave higher. "No need to resort to violence," the man squirmed.

Nick's hold was more of a lean, but still turned it into another intimidation tactic. Archie and Bobby were impressed.

"You know the walls around here are thin and...um, word is that, Ecklie…you know…" The tech stammered and the CSI was losing his patience. "Grissom and Ecklie argued about someone stepping into your spot and replacing you." Nick's hand fell away and Hodges added hastily, "Temporarily. That was the argument, but Grissom nixed it."

Stunned was the only word for Nick's' expression. Bobby smacked Hodges on the back of his head and Archie glowered at him, fumbling for some way to salvage the conversation.

"You're an asshole," Bobby spat.

"We all know that."

What was it with voices out of nowhere tonight, Archie thought bewilderedly. But, he was happy to see Jim Brass in the doorway. Maybe he could help fix this disaster. Without much of a word, the Captain was already addressing the CSI.

"Come on, Nicky. I need some coffee and better conversation than these schmucks can offer."

It was an insult and directed at the three of them, but no one complained.

"Maybe I should..."

Jim snorted. "Don't insult an old man. Now stop moping and help keep me away from Sander's non-stop dissertation on rock music. If we stall long enough maybe his new experiment will eat him."

Jim Brass was the best kind of medicine and while they waved goodbye to their visitor two plotted a way to glue Hodges to his desk.

The trek to the break room was slow. Every few steps, they paused, not so much because of Nick's infirmity, but because of the celebrity status of his companion and the all around likability the man had with everyone. Hell, even the janitor took time to say hello and wish the man a speedy recovery. Jim didn't complain. It was just the right kind of healing the guy needed, but Nick also looked like he could use a chair, or a bed perhaps.

"How'd you get here?"

"I _drove_." Nick's tone was peevish at the questioning of his ability to operate a car.

Jim hmmm'd loudly. When the young man shot him a daggered look, he let the comment fly. "Should I worry about you getting pulled over for a DUI?"

"I planned on stopping by so I skipped my pain meds after dinner."

"That much is obvious, Nicky," he snarked to the guy's dismay.

After the throngs of fans the Captain had to slow down the pace like he did when escorting elderly suspects. Short distances the CSI was up to, but it was obvious he underestimated the scope and size of his place of employment. It seemed that the word stamina was not part of the vocabulary that Nick's body was willing to take on just yet. Jim didn't utter a word and acted much like he did anytime the two talked and patiently waited.

They rounded one of the last corners and Jim didn't recall running a marathon, but Nick sure as hell acted like they were on the final leg of one. No one was suppose to perspire from a lazy stroll or breathe like they were scaling the peaks of Everest. When the young man became dependent on the wall for support, the Captain looked for an honorable way to help.

"Got a pimp suit to go with your bling, cuz?" he quipped as he hovered very close by, one hand out ready to steady a fumble.

The cane in question wobbled a little with so much pressure on it, but Nick brushed the Captain away. "I got it."

Jim held his hands out in mock surrender. But he was relieved when he spotted the sanctity of the one of the sofas in the break room. They had arrived at the promised land.

"Sit down before you fall down."

Once Nick had collapsed onto the couch, he spent the next few minutes catching his breath. He rested his head back with his arms wrapped tightly around him.

"Enjoy your work out?" Brass joked.

Nick still had his sense of humor. "Yeah, maybe I'll run laps next time."

"And maybe I'd beat you."

They shared a meaningful look but still laughed together despite it. "Figured out what needs oiling?"

The CSI hoisted his leg up to rest straight out, adjusting the bulky knee brace under his loose jeans. "Yeah, maybe another tune up or two before I return to firin' on all cylinders."

"There's no race out there. Take all the time you need to get every spark plug checked."

"Got to make sure there's a spot open for me in the lineup," Nick drawled, eyes scanning the empty room. He sighed. "Heavy action tonight?"

Brass rolled his neck. "Nothing a good scotch couldn't cure." He knew it was his turn to feed the younger man some intel to keep him in the loop. "We busted a meth lab. Guys used some weird mix of chemicals so Greg's checking to see what was in their cocktail."

"Greg was solo?"

"Hell no. Sofia was making sure he was potty trained. It was a turkey shoot out in the rest of the city; murder's the new fad, I guess."

Nick's attention meandered a little and he finally rested his gaze on him. "How are things really?"

Stalling wouldn't work. The truth worked best for him. "Everyone's dead tired, tense is the word of the day, and everyone needs a long vacation." He cocked his head as if to ask, _is that what you wanted to hear?_

Nick answered by tapping his cane against the couch. "Thanks for being honest."

"We're short an important player. The team's weary, but they'll be fine. Got to keep King Ecklie at bay, and the cases will still be there." His words were not inspiring, but he knew the guy wanted it straight.

"Must be like a powder keg, I guess... waiting on the next one?" the young man wondered out loud as he rubbed at his side.

The bombings...everyone was ready to snap under the pressure of catching the asshole, but waiting... with no clue when the next kaboom would take place? Yep, that was wearing real thin.

Jim used his best Grissom impersonation. "There's no rush. There'll be dead bodies when you come back. They won't be goin' anywhere." Okay, so it lacked the perfect grammar and a quote. It would have to do. "Christ, Nick, you've been out of the hospital, what a little over a week? Just learn to relax."

"Could you just relax when everything connected to living a normal life rested on fighting for every small victory?"

Damn he was good. Jim rolled his tongue around another snappy comeback when all hell broke loose down the hall.

The older man was on his feet and ran out of the break room and down several halls. There was a commotion and a frenzy of activity and much like a scene of a car wreck a few people milled around. As soon as he put on the brakes some nameless tech and Wendy were helping Greg Sanders out into the corridor. Jim's nostrils filled with a foul odor and his lungs hitched from some irritant in the air.

David Hodges and Bobby donned masks and flew past him into a room filled with a light white smoke. Greg sat in the hallway waving off Wendy, his voice of protest cut off by a coughing fit.

"You all right, Greg?" the Captain asked, although it appeared the rookie had caught a bigger dose of whatever chemicals were stinging his eyes now.

A few more lab jockeys were in the mix now, trying to clear people away from the area. Jim helped Greg to his feet, the rookie seeming disoriented, but it was safer to drag the guy away from the chaos of whatever had just happened. Wendy was close by and together they helped Greg up. He could see Nick in his field of vision making his way over.

Jim waved him away, having no clue what the lingering fumes in the air could do to a guy whose lung had just been stitched up. "Stay back, Nick!" he shouted.

Greg grew more alert and began to walk unaided. He added his scratchier voice to warn his buddy away from the stuff he'd just inhaled. "Don't worry, man. I'm good."

The rookie seemed not to be in any immediate danger and Jim helped him into an empty room far enough away from the failed experiment. Nick hovered nearby, casting an eye out the hall and back into the room.

Before anyone could open their mouths to ask a question, the one on all their lips boomed heavily from the entrance. "What the Hell just happened here?"

All eyes turned to see Conrad Ecklie in the doorway, cell phone in one hand, directing traffic with the other.

"Not sure what happened… something reacted badly… don't know what it was..." Greg croaked out, constantly clearing his voice.

Ecklie didn't sic the demons of Hell upon the tech; he simply took it in stride. "Then go to the ER and get checked out."

"But..." the rookie protested.

"That's an order, Sanders." The A.D. snapped his fingers, shouting out instructions to get things settled. Then turned back to glare. "Wendy, I need you to drive Sanders to Desert Palm."

"Sorry we didn't get to hang, dude." Greg turned to Nick before hacking a little more.

"Its cool, man," Nick replied still bewildered a little from the accident.

"Ecklie, we've got everything contained. Damage looks minimal. From all appearances it was a bad chemical reaction," Bobby explained, peering into the room.

"Thanks. I'll get someone to go in and clean things up and document all procedures and find me Curtis." Ecklie looked back in the room, dismayed that no one was hopping to at his orders. "Sanders, ER. Now."

Greg got up wearily and Nick patted him on the shoulder as Wendy took him to the hospital for a check up. No doubt the criminalist wanted to follow, but the last place Nick needed to go was back to Desert Palms.

Ecklie appeared back in the doorway after briefing some other underling with instructions and set his sights on Nick. "Nice night to drop by, Stokes. I'd stick around and chat, but I have my hands full right now. Maybe we'll talk some other time about a few things."

Jim exhaled loudly; that stiff drink looked more and more appealing. He studied his friend and felt for him. Nothing like being at a place you loved and feeling like you didn't belong. "You look exhausted, Nicky. Why don't you go home. I'll let you know how Greg's doing. Kid seems fine."

The older man studied those stiff shoulders and rigid jaw. Nick wasn't depressed, he was pissed. The Texan nodded his head and headed out with determination. No way he was going to let him leave with his mind half cocked. Jim just hoped that the snail's pace back to Nick's truck would give him enough time to find out what was going on in that sometimes mule-headed mind.

* * *

_Many, many thanks to those who have been so generous and for keeping up with this story. All of your words truly mean a lot._


	15. Chapter 15

Hey there! Haven't seen my favorite tall, dark and handsome CSI here in a while!"

The words came from between two bright coral lips split in a wide smile. She planted one matching coral-nailed hand on her hip and sauntered over in painted on jeans.

"Hey, Shelly! Long time, yeah," Warrick agreed with a matching smile. He rose from his seat to accept a quick hug from the waitress, then scooched over so she could join him on the wooden bench.

"How's your partner doin'?" she asked in a more sober tone. The bar was frequented by the lab and the whole police department and Shelly had been as constant the last ten years as the special dark brew on tap and the bar's famous sweet potato fries.

"Better, thanks. He's uh, actually supposed to be meeting me here tonight. He's-" and he dashed a quick look at his watch and tried to keep the automatic concerned expression off his face. "Actually he's a little late."

"Traffic's a bitch out there," Shelly reassured him. "Thought Jimmy was gonna take my head off for being five minutes late until he dragged in five _after _me. Man, was he pissed!"

The Four Ninety, named for the metro code for down time, was owned by an ex-LVPD desk sergeant who ran his bar as tightly as he ran his precinct desk.

"Yeah. News and film crews are cloggin' up Sheppard St. They're filmin' some reality show at the opening of that new restaurant. They're hoping this asshole turns out to be the next Gordon Ramsay," Warrick said with a snort.

"Lord save us all," Shelly tossed off with a laugh as she ran her nails through her cropped brown hair. As her hand came down Warrick caught a glint of something shiny on her finger.

"Is that--? Did he--?"

"Yeah," the waitress smiled with a blush as she held her hand out. A half carat diamond in a plain yellow gold band shone from her ring finger. "I'm gonna be a cop's wife! Can you frickin' imagine?"

"It's about time Marty did right by you, babe. Congratulations. Man, Nicky is gonna be disappointed to hear you'll be off the market."

"If that Texan asked I'd take this ring off in a heartbeat," she stage whispered in Rick's ear. She patted the tall man on his shoulder and stood from the table. "But, considerin' they tossed me outa eleventh grade on my second go around, I don't think we'd make much of a match." She gave a dramatic sigh of regret. "Woulda coulda shouldas, babe. So. What you want to drink? You off duty?"

"Hell. Yeah. I am _off_," the tall man exhaled with gusto. "Gimme the usual off the tap."

"You betcha. Same for your partner?"

Warrick considered for a minute. "Naw. He's probably still off the hard stuff. Let him order when he -- well, speakin' of 'your Texan'..."

She balled up her fist and punched him, but Warrick couldn't help but notice how she stood taller and brushed her hair into place as Nick approached.

And he also couldn't help but notice the way she then slumped and the look of slight dismay on her face.

His partner looked old- pale and worn out, limping into the bar, his cane an extension of his hand as it thumped on the wooden bar floor. It must have killed him, having to walk in under the watchful eye of many of his fellow cops, and Warrick kicked himself for suggesting this as their meeting place.

Two men rose from bar stools to approach him and Nick tucked his head down as if expecting a beating. He had a look of genuine surprise on his face as instead he was confronted with outstretched hands. He shook them firmly, eyes barely leaving the floor.

A third man caught Nick as he passed his table, the CSI saying something with a smile as he nodded, then made his way over to where Shelly stood next to their booth.

"Hey, Shelly," he drawled quietly, grinning like a fool as she wrapped her wiry arms around him in a hug.

"Don't remember my arms makin' it around you so easily, babe," she whispered huskily as she gave him another firm squeeze then stepped back to eye him up and down. "Aw, ya look good, though, Nick."

"Those actin' classes are really working for ya, Shel," Nick said with a smirk. "But thanks."

She stepped back so he could ease himself into the booth seat, his left leg stretched out next to him as he tucked himself into the corner.

"What can I get ya, Nick? You name it. On the house."

"Iced tea. You order already, bro?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Thanks, Shel."

The waitress left to go behind the bar and Nick leaned over the table. "That a ring on her finger?" he asked quietly with a thumb hooked her way.

Warrick burst out a laugh. "Yeah. Missed your chance there, son. Marty snatched her up."

"Snatched her up, ha! They've been datin' what? Four years now? 's bout time he did right by her."

"That's exactly what I told her, bro. But I knew you always had a thing for her."

His partner blushed, bringing welcome color to his cheeks. "Naw. But she sure is fun to flirt with. And she has got the most amazing-- hey, Shel!" He looked up as the waitress dropped off a glass of dark brew in front of Warrick and a tall glass of tea chock full of lemons. She dropped a handful of sugar packets next to it with a long handled spoon. "Extra lemon for ya, and load up on the sugar, would ya, hon? You could use the calories."

It was meant as a light hearted jab but Nick's face fell slightly.

"The sweeter the better, Shel. Thanks," he said, mustering back his grin.

"No prob. What can I get you guys from the kitchen? I think we still have some of the roast beef left if you want open face sandwiches."

"Sounds good, Shelly," Warrick said, rubbing his hands together. "Extra sweet fries. Nick?"

"Can you ask Paolo to make his eggs for me? Extra hot sauce? And throw in some of that chorizo if he has any. The spicy stuff."

"Plate of _huevos,_ extra heat, and a side of Tums," she added with a laugh. "You got it." And she slid away to call her order into the kitchen.

"Guess the accident didn't affect your stomach none, huh, bro? Sure that's not too much spicy shit for ya?"

"Relax, Rick. Been eating hot stuff since I was a babe."

Warrick gave him a doubtful look.

" 's true, man. My mom said when I was, like, one I usta eat off my dad's plate. Cisco never knew a food that didn't taste better with Tabasco on it. Besides..." Nick cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat. "Food doesn't have much flavor for me lately. Doc said it's just another fun side effect of the concussion. Everythin' tastes like cardboard. Chilies are one of the few things that make it through."

"Doc say when it'll come back?"

Nick just waved a hand disgustedly. "Tired of askin'. He always says somethin' about the brain bein' a funny thing... them not really understandin' everything about it. Whatever. It's no biggie.

Don't wanna talk about it anymore," he said abruptly. "How's Greg doin'?"

"They let him go that night. Gave him a couple inhaler treatments just in case, but I guess he's gonna be fine. He's on the roster to come in tonight."

"Poor kid. They ever figure out what happened?"

"Yeah. Couple mistakes. Whoever labeled the bottle of one of the reagents messed up. But Greg shoulda caught it. Chemical he was looking for isn't even the same color, and the smell alone shoulda told him it was the wrong stuff. He was just…"

"Yeah," Nick completed for him. "Tired. 's why I'm comin' back to work tomorrow."

Warrick started, then grinned. "Yeah, good one, bro."

"I'm serious," Nick said quietly. "Comin' back on tomorrow night. Just lab work for now, but I'll be there to pitch in."

"Nick, man. I know you mean well, but ain't no way they'll let you back on yet. You've got another few weeks left at least of your leave."

"You underestimate the powers that be, bro," Nick said with a grim smile. "The insurance company isn't happy about payin' me to sit on my duff. All I had to do was get clearance from my doc, and _he _answers to the insurance people."

"No way Sgt. Slaughter'll give you the all clear."

"Nope. You're right. That's why I had Janet pass me. Took a couple pills before my session, grit my teeth through my workout- she said she was 'amazed' by my progress. And I promised her I'd have lab duty only. She signed me right off."

"Are you nuts? Man, you've been outa the hospital what? Three weeks?? I know we're shorthanded but…" He stopped and snapped his fingers. "Paperwork's gotta be cleared by Grissom. The man's a machine but even he won't let you back. Sorry, bro. Looks like you got a stay from the governor."

"Grissom was busy. Dropped my forms off with Ecklie. Man never even hesitated. Signed on the x and shook my hand, welcomed me back. It's a done deal, Rick."

Warrick opened his mouth to protest further when Shelly showed up juggling two food-laden plates. She dropped the roast beef in front of Warrick and pointed at the sweet potato fries. "Honey butter on 'em, just the way you like 'em." Then she laid a fragrant plate of an eggs, peppers and sausage concoction in front of Nick, pulling a bottle of hot sauce from her pocket and putting it on the table next to his plate. From the other pocket of her short bar apron she pulled a green bottle free, retrieving a bottle cap opener and popping the top with practiced ease. She set it in front of Nick with a grin.

"O'Douls. Non-alcoholic beer. Jimmy swears by 'em; been drinkin' 'em ever since he took the pledge."

Nick gave her a grateful smile. 'Thanks, Shel." He pulled a long draught from the bottle, and nodded his head. "Not bad, you're right. Pretty damn close. Thanks."

Her smile grew wider. "No prob. I know you must miss your beer. Well, I'll leave you guys to it. Gimme a holler if you need anything."

Nick set the beer down and opened the bottle of hot sauce, sprinkling it generously over the eggs. He put a forkful in his mouth, chewed for a bit, then put the utensil down with a sigh.

Warrick stopped with his forkful of gravy-coated beef halfway to his mouth.

"No good?"

"Nah. They're fine. Just… you know."

"And the near beer?"

"Water. But it was sweet of her to try."

"And the doc says--"

Nick put up a hand to stop him. "Don't. Want. To. Talk about it. Just eat up." He tucked into his eggs and made a show of concentrating on eating.

Warrick set his fork down with a clatter of metal on ceramic. "You are one stubborn sonofabitch you know that?"

Nick's head rose from his plate, eyes wide with innocence. "What? I just don't wanna dwell on things is all. Nothing to be done --"

"I'm talkin' about your boneheaded idea of comin' back to work, Nick. Come on, man. You're smart. Don't play stupid with me."

Nick set his fork down in exasperation. "You guys are spread so thin, Rick. Christ, Greg nearly blew himself up again. Something that never woulda happened if you guys weren't so shorthanded. How you think that makes me feel?"

"Shouldn't make you feel anything, bro! Only thing you should be worryin' about is getting back on your feet-- all the way back. Pushing yourself too hard is just gonna set you back."

"I can sit at the lab as easily as I can sit at home, Rick. No OT, no heavy work. Just runnin' fibers and helpin' out in DNA and AV."

"Aw, Jesus! That asshole's back on the goddamned TV!" a coarse voice shouted from over at the bar. A bulky, florid-faced man in shirtsleeves and a bar apron stood wiping out a glass with a hand towel as he stared at the TV perched in the corner. Conrad Ecklie's talking head was on.

"Hey, Jimmy! Turn the asshole up, would ya?" Warrick shouted out. Half the bar laughed.

The owner humphed but picked up a small remote and punched the volume up so the bar could hear.

"…_have evidence linking Mr. Snyder to the murder, yes that is correct. The councilman is cooperating fully with our investigation and I'm sure we'll have everything sorted out in time." _

"Director?"

Ecklie recognized her with a nod. It was a female voice, and the camera pointed to a woman in a sharp, expensive-looking suit.

"_Callie Christopher, Channel Four. You must admit that with the crime lab's inability to determine the perpetrator behind the three recent bombings that the public's confidence isn't exactly high right now. Care to comment?"_

Conrad played with the knot of his tie, but put on an icy smile. "_Ms. Christopher, as I'm sure you are aware, the lab has made the bombings a priority. We have most of our limited manpower working around the clock on it, and I have every confidence that the individual responsible will be determined in the very near future."_

Warrick huffed out a disdainful laugh and muttered, "Right. Picture that."

"…_the bomber is obviously an amateur. For Pete's sake, one bomb didn't go off and the other he messed up and detonated when the building was practically empty."_

Nick shook his head. "Three men died in that _empty _building," he murmured under his breath.

"…not exactly a criminal mastermind." Ecklie chuckled but the crowd at the conference and the crowd at the bar remained stony faced.

"Director?"

Conrad sighed audibly. "_Yes, Ms. Christopher? There are other reporters here, you may have noticed with your keen investigative eye."_ A few of her fellow journalists sliced her dirty looks but most seemed ready to hear what she was going to hit the director with next.

"_My sources tell me that Sheriff Mobley is disgusted with the lack of progress on the bombings. Word is, your head may be on a plate."_

The AD flinched, then snorted. His hand returned to his tie knot as a greasy smile curled up the corners of his mouth. "_Actually, the sheriff is very pleased with our efforts. He must not be too angry. He's invited me and the Missus to join him at the opening of Ciopinno's tomorrow night. I heard the chef makes an amazing osso buco."_

"Turn it off, Jimmy! We've heard enough," Warrick yelled, rancor dripping from his words. "Man's gonna chow down at some fancy restaurant while we're eatin' Mickey Dees and puttin' in another double. You really wanna go back to this, Nick?"

Nick just bent his head back over his plate and poked at his eggs in silence.

* * *

"I can't believe this," Catherine grumbled loudly enough for the rest of the world to hear. She was rummaging through bins of trash, black plastic bags bursting open at the top exposing rotten food and leaking spoiled milk all over.

Why didn't the filthy rich recycle? Beer cans, not as chic as expected for this upper echelon. She snapped a picture of them and put the out of place Coors aside for a closer look later. Garbage: smelly, disgusting refuse...typical for the way the night had begun and she sent death rays at the Armani suit as he gabbed with Grissom.

Her head spun in anger. This was _her_ case, _her_ high profile scene. It was the third night working on what had started out as the Spencer case, rifling through every cold lead, and every scrap of evidence. Backbreaking work at the garage for twelve hours straight and then hitting the archives staring at microfilm until her eyes bled.

Finally a break. Hell, a cosmic rift, and after three doubles in a row, _Grissom _was in charge?

Catherine muttered again, the path to her promotion foggy one day, crystal clear the next. As in Waterford transparent on whom the old boy network catered to. She fumed until Sara's odd noises and a couple of glares made her slam down a half empty can of dog food, the gelatinous goo sticky all over her gloves.

"What is it?"

Sara looked up, not one bit apologetic, and not ready to back down when she was in full blown pissed off mode. "You've been sneering and sniping under your breath. What is your problem anyway?"

Maybe she got up on the wrong side of the bed, all four hours she'd spent in it. Or it could have been the cold sludge of coffee that didn't settle well in the pit of her stomach, but Catherine decided that this was a great opportunity to share her rage with the world.

Or with the available target next to her.

"This was _my_ case."

The other criminalist folded her arms. "Really. Yours."

"You know what I mean. This started off as just another DB across town."

"Except there was something off about it. Something strange," Sara retorted with an almost accusing tone.

Catherine wasn't about to apologize for her instincts. "Then it led to dummy offshore accounts--"

"--then to Armand Laptiz, the oil tycoon who retired to Vegas two years ago. Major donator to the LVPD's coffers, and to several political candidates, _and _he dropped a bundle in a fund to expand broadband communications for the city just last week." The younger woman matched Catherine's scowl.

She wasn't about to lose it in front of Sara of all people. "Grissom isn't even up to speed about the possible money laundering."

"His DB from last night had this address written on a balled up piece of paper and the code to the security system."

"Of course you'd defend him." Catherine was aiming low, but she didn't care.

Their voices were attracting attention and before either knew it Ecklie and the subject of the argument were standing next to them.

"Something wrong, Catherine?" Ecklie obviously wasn't expecting an honest reply from his snide tone, and Grissom sent her a warning look.

She bit her lip, but would not hold her temper. Politics be damned. "I expect to be primary on this."

Ecklie didn't seem amused by her command. "And you have a track record on high profile cases since when?"

Catherine stepped up to the plate, ready to dish it right back out at him.

"Conrad--" Grissom interrupted.

"Enough." the A.D. snapped.

Catherine felt some of the ire at her supervisor slip as they both readied for a tongue lashing.

"You two handle things however you want, but I'm tired of the bickering and sloppy results." Ecklie took a deep breath, ready to fire at full speed. "This case will not be handled like some territorial pissing match. Grissom will take lead and, Catherine, you will do whatever it takes to solve this case and do it quickly."

She readied to fire a volley back but Ecklie had just begun.

"You've gotten nowhere on the bombings that have the Sheriff flambéing my ass every second. You have rookie CSIs mixing up the wrong chemicals for crying out loud! I won't stand for another top priority case getting screwed up because you've got a big head," he yelled, pointing at Catherine, "and _you_ don't have any control over your team!" he continued, turning on Grissom.

Catherine was too stunned to retort and Grissom's cold exterior did little to hide how much he felt chewed out and spit back up. Sara had the good sense to remain mute and stay away from the roast. Ecklie wiped at his mouth and controlled some of the lava spurting from his lips.

"Oh, and to show that I'm not all brimstone, I signed off on Stokes's return to lab duty. He starts in two nights. I expect his performance to be followed and whatever restrictions to his employment observed." Ecklie shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stalked away with a real glee in his eyes.

The air still sizzled from the reprimand, but Catherine's heels cooled with the last bomb. She turned to her boss who seemed more puzzled by the announcement than anything. "Nick's return?"

Sara had silently come back to the huddle from her corner and looked on with the same dropped jaw as Catherine. Cool eyes met their gaze. "It's the first I'm hearing about it as well."

"Wait. Hold on a damn minute. How the hell did get Nick get approved to return to duty? Did his _dentist _sign off on it?"

For the first time Catherine noticed that Grissom looked a little worn around the edges. It was hard to shift to reverse after being stuck in overdrive, but she would try. She waited, but her sparring partner from earlier regained her voice.

"He knew you'd never sign him back on," Sara told Grissom. "He must have done an end run around you. Went right to penny pinching Ecklie. Nick had to know Ecklie'd love to have him back working for his paycheck."

Catherine's memories of aiding Nick around the house were still fresh. Of his body worn out after a grueling physical therapy session and his apologetic expression when she tidied up for him when he was too exhausted to do it. "He's not ready."

"Not according to his doctors and his insurance, if Conrad signed him back on," Grissom said with a sigh.

"Son of a bitch comp board only seeing the bottom line," Catherine fumed.

Grissom tried to calm her down, using that damnable logic of his. "It'll be light lab duty. Short shifts. He'll be fine. "

"This isn't good for him, Gil. Not one bit." Catherine saw out of the corner of her eye the AD staring at their lack of productivity and wanted to flip him the bird. "We're not done talking about this," she growled and returned to her pile of trash.

She almost missed his, "Not much left to argue about," reply.

Grissom asked Sara to give him a hand out in the back and Catherine was silently gratefully she could stew in private. It wasn't even midnight and the whole shift had gone to hell in a hand basket.

* * *

_The splintering of the door as it was kicked off its hinges and the sound of heavy soled boots clomping over the floorboards warned him. When he was rousted out of bed, batons poked him in his ribs, as heavy British accents assailed his ears. _

"Get out here, ya wanker!"

His room was tossed. Like a good boy, he stayed inside, hoping the triggers sewn into his brother's mattress wouldn't be discovered. Mikey didn't know he was aware of them and would tan his hide if he said one word about them. One soldier ransacked his room, threw his things around, while another screamed in his face with sour beer breath.

Then the foul smelling bastard pinched his ear and dragged him out by it into the hall where he watched as the Union pig ripped pages out of the few books he'd bought helping with dairy deliveries in the city.

"Where's your brother gone to? Flown the coop 'as he? Left you and yer granny all alone?"

He heard crying and his chest filled with fire and his eyes liquid hate. A smack to the back of his head brought him back to the cur in front of him.

"Tell 'im we burned those traitorous flags and we'll catch up to 'im soon!"

Military fatigues and a pale face with crystal blue eyes glared at him. "Stop listenin' to that shnit he fills yer ears with. It's all rubbish, this talk about rebellion. You serve the Queen, lad."

His Nana quickly grabbed him up in her bony hands, cussing the soldier out, swearing so fiercely about touching her boy that spittle flew from her mouth. As her hands held him snugly against her nightgown wrapped form he could smell the petrol in the air.

The solider held a match in front of his face, the sulfur filling his nostrils. "We'll burn it all down, ya hear? Burn all ya scum alive if you don't tell the rest of them IRA bastards to act like real men." The soldier chuckled as his Nana's diatribe became even more colorful, making her sound more like his granddad did after a few weeks at sea.

When the solider bent his hand back to slap her, Kevin's eyes popped open and he bolted up out of the recliner he had fallen asleep in.

He fumbled a cig out of its pack, shoved it between his lips, and searched for his Zippo. He pulled his trusty lighter from his pocket, his reflection in the silver metal wavering with his slightly shaky hand. His thumb flipped the top off, then slapped it back down.

Chink.

Clink.

Chink.

Clink.

His thumb rolled over the wheel and the flint ignited the fuel. He slid his flinger through the flame before bringing it to the tobacco and inhaling deeply. The hypnotic fascination over, he slung the lighter on to the tiny end table, then rummaged around in the tattered cardboard box next to him. Its lid's corners were worn, the bottom stained yellow from wear. All the folded papers were carefully kept in neatly ordered stacks and he grabbed one set and placed them on his lap while he flipped on the small lamp.

The cramped living room smelled like an ashtray, and the mold in the walls plagued his brother's allergies. He began with March 7th, 1991, and his eyes darted over lines, his voice echoing in the room as he read aloud with glee, like a storyteller with his pipe, of the 'glory' of his older brother's past triumphs.

"Eight people were killed in the bombing of the Europa Hotel in City Center today. This was the sixth time in two years that the four star establishment had been under attack. The corporation that owns the hotel, National Trust, has upped the reward to 100,000 punts for any information that leads to the capture of the people responsible. Though no regional terrorist association has stepped forward, many people believe that a local faction of the IRA is responsible for this and the bombing earlier this year at a local bank in the Shankill area."

The sound of the neighbor's dog yelping had him on his feet, hand resting on the end of a knife sheathed in a belt holder. His pupils dilated in the darkness, the ash from his cigarette drifting to the floor. He ducked down and kept his body away from the windows and crept up to the very edge, pulling back the curtain ever so slightly to see nothing but night.

"Feckin' mutt, oughta cut ya throat and shut ya up," he grumbled.

He snuffed his smoke out and tapped another out of its pack as he sat back down in the recliner. He put his precious papers away carefully, folding them just right down the creases. Mikey's past honors had to be handled properly and thoughts of his brother's service to their homeland back in the day propelled Kevin's thudding heartbeat. He flexed his healed hand; it still bothered him a little but he'd be back to work in no time.

All that he needed was secretly stowed away in a crawlspace. He noted the time and cursed that he'd missed part of the news. He flipped on the telly, the Zippo back between his fingers, then flipped off the small table lamp, letting the room fill with an eerie blue glow from the screen.

The newscaster was hot; blazing red hair and a fine, leggy body. Banging her all night filled his dreams most nights.

The metal lighter was warm now from his sweaty palm and he allowed the first few minutes' stories about the economy and war in Iraq to lull him into a haze.

Clink.

Chink.

When the old guy showed his ugly face Kevin seethed. The bastard had mocked him during his news conference. There were several fresh holes in the peeling papered walls he'd had to quickly cover over with some old family photos before his grandmother had found them. He didn't want to have his Nana's heart get all worked up or have Mikey pissed at him, though he'd been more annoyed with his brother of late.

Mikey was getting soft; too much time slurpin' on cokes and eating pizza. He'd even stopped doing his three mile runs last year and a pudgy beer belly had started to show. It made him ill to think his wonderful brother was letting Vegas spoil him.

The skin of his thumb was raw as he realized he'd never stopped flicking the Zippo's lid off and on during the American's little spiel.

"_...the bomber is obviously an amateur. For Pete's sake, one bomb didn't go off and the other he messed up and detonated when the building was practically empty."_

Kevin threw the remote at the television and his boot right after it. The fall knocked the plug out and deafened the set and he scrambled to insert the metal prongs back into the wall.

The police lab man's voice filled the room, but the picture was now fuzzy.

"_He must not be too angry. He's invited me and the Missus to join him at the opening of Ciopinno's tomorrow night. I heard the chef makes an amazing osso buco."_

Kevin's fist thudded the side of the piece of crap set, banging the thing until his wrist ached but the blurry, wavy-lined picture still rolled.

"You feckin' bastard. You god damn---" Kevin's tirade was cut short as he stared at the hot redheaded newscaster's body as she signed off her report. Her crimson lips over veneers smile never quite made it to her cold blue eyes.

Kevin's head connected with the glass screen, little blinking dots of color in his vision as he began to formulate a plan that would show her, show that bugger, Ecklie. Would show them all.

* * *


	16. Chapter 16

Eight hours was a short shift by any measurement in his line of work. A pretty run of the mill night. More than likely his tasks would consist of those mundane lab tests normally hoisted onto the backs of newbie techs or those in training. Of course, the watch-the-paint-dry assignments would be substantially different than say a sales floor or staring at a computer crunching numbers of ordinary jobs; his results affected lives, not dollar signs.

Nick had arrived early, no need to be late punching the clock on his first night back. He hadn't even made it two steps towards the lab. He'd been thinking, for more than ten solid minutes. Surprisingly, no one had taken notice of him leaning against the door of his truck.

He allowed his chest to expand, sucking in the chilly air, and it brought only a slight twinge, nothing more. He'd stopped wearing the brace around his chest and donned it only during physical therapy. Had to get used to being sore. There was a small whacking sound, a methodical tap...tap...tap...tap.

He gazed down at his cane, bumping it lightly against the vehicle, and sighed, eyes staring at the doors into work.

"_You gonna stop staring at that thing like it's some albatross?"_

_Matt never glared; his face rarely held much beyond its normal granite expression, hands always behind his back, in his usual at ease stance. The solider didn't raise his voice—this time. Had merely asked a simple question and expected a response._

_Nick had one hand on the wall, mouth open as he panted, the extra half-inch of newly grown hair plastered to his head with sweat, some of it stinging his eyes. His bad knee was partway bent, wanting to buckle and his side ached and protested every extra step._

_Hard to bitch when he was the one to force the additional rounds._

_Breathless, Nick stared at the albatross, laying strewn a few feet away where he'd tossed it out of frustration at its very existence. _

_The solider waited. Nick shuffled over, grunted out of irritation more than pain, and picked up the fallen cane. He shoved the rubber end into the floor and used it to prop one side of his body upright._

"_It's there to help you, not mock your progress. We should use every tool available to us in battle." _

_More pearls of wisdom and before he began down the road of feeling sorry for himself he stared at the vet's sweat pants. "That how you feel 'bout your other leg?" he asked, nodding at the metal appendage hidden by the fabric._

_Matt's head pivoted a few degrees down to study his artificial limb as if not really noting its overall significance. "It's a part of me. I never despised what made me whole again. What I hated was my lack of motivation... determination, not the wheelchair. Not the crutches then the cane. They were just steps to my recovery. Can't look at them as a sign of weakness." _

_Matt waved towards his wooden support. "Don't let that be your measuring stick."_

_The gap toothed smile showed, the humor poking through at his attempt at a witty metaphor._

Nick didn't agree with it then and he still had doubts about it now.

Tap... tap... tap.

Mustering up good old-fashioned gridiron fortitude, he slung open the door, threw in the cane and headed back into the war zone. He shook his head; too much time spent around his drill sergeant. He patted his front pocket and verified his pain pills were there … just in case. And the knee brace hidden under his pants; that wasn't something anyone needed to know about.

* * *

When he'd had detention after school one day after picking a fight with Freddie Wilson, a fifth grader held back for two years, it was out of revenge for the bully's obscene comments. Those lewd remarks had not been directed at him, but at Jenny Abbott his first true love. Of course, she didn't know that and neither did his parents. Having both of them hauled over to the school by the principal, out of concern over the typically mild-mannered honor student, was like being slowly roasted over the coals.

He'd never felt so unjustly punished for upholding someone's honor, even if he didn't yet know what that word really meant. The scrutiny from his worried teacher and the way his parents hemmed and hawed about what went wrong made him squirm uncomfortably in his chair. Much like the wiggling he was trying to avoid while under the same searching eyes of two of his superiors.

Grissom's hands were folded on his desk and Catherine stared at him as if he was Lindsey trying to hide a cough so she could go hang out at the mall. He'd witnessed that throw down one day in the break room. The motherly appraisal began to wear a wee bit thin and he cleared his voice to break the tension.

It had been two minutes since all the pleasantries about his return had subsided and the silence was thankfully broken by Catherine's quick glare at their supervisor.

Grissom's pointer finger tapped on the desk. "Each day you'll be assigned to whatever section of the lab needs a hand. Tonight you'll be in AV helping Archie out with some of his backlog."

"Sounds like a plan," he grinned.

"Viewing film will keep you off your feet. It'll also make your eyes roll back in your head if you don't walk away from there every once in a while," Grissom explained even though Nick had spent countless hours deciphering video before on his own cases.

He nodded even though the older man didn't seem to reflect the same confidence. Apparently not everyone felt he was ready to return to duty, but it only aided in his motivation to prove his worth once again.

He cleared his throat, knowing that the underlying hum of tension was a direct result of some of the maneuvering he used to get back to work. "Um, Gris-"

His supervisor held his hand up to silence the argument; when Nick let his head drop, the older man massaged the bridge of his nose.

"I may not watch much football, but I'm aware of the quarterback sneak."

Nick shifted in his chair, and Catherine and his boss exchanged angry silent stares. Grissom won out and slouched further back in his chair. "Don't feel like you have to run those types of plays around us."

Catherine looked like she wanted to broach something but it seemed they'd reached a stalemate in the silent war. Nick felt as if there were unresolved issues between them, and he had a nagging feeling he might be the cause.

The awkwardness lasted only a few more minutes and when all the land mines of his health had been successfully navigated, it was time to feel useful again.

He shook hands with Grissom. Catherine hesitated, looking like she wanted to reprimand him, but she couldn't hold that façade for long. She gave him a small smile before pulling him into an embrace. "Ecklie got wind of our plans for a party, but there's still cake hidden in the fridge."

Nick never thought he'd feel grateful for that man's unenthusiastic response to sentimentality. "It's cool," he reassured her.

He turned around and headed out, fully aware of two sets of uneasy eyes on his back. He made sure his movements were smooth.

One, two...

"Nick."

He looked behind him, almost home free.

Grissom paused. "Have a good first night."

It was Grissom speak for: _Please, don't push it._ "Thanks," and he tried to shake off any rekindled nerves as he went to work.

* * *

Searching for a lone face in a sea of tourists and gamblers was the very definition of a needle in a haystack. Of course, he'd learned from watching _way _too many episodes of Mythbusters while on leave that even _that _was possible. Trying to wade through hours of security cameras at the Bellagio? Now that was a set of impossible odds. Maybe the two geeks from the show could come up with some contraption to help ease this tedious suffering.

The muscles in his shoulder were tied into knots from having his right hand constantly on the mouse; click, click, click, and his eyes were dry as the Sahara. Even though he was viewing the footage on the larger LCD screen and not the computer monitor, the images had begun to burn into his retinas.

Archie had been a welcome distraction, even with his pop culture obsession with movies and television shows. Didn't the guy get enough flashing pixels from his work? When the tech tried to rope him into a discussion of the hottest babe was on Battlestar Galactica, he'd had to admit he didn't know there was a new series. So much for his vague memory of that guy from the A-Team on the old 80's cheese fest he remembered as a kid. The small talk kept the monotony of his task bearable until the tech switched to concentrating on some audiotapes.

"Is that chair too uncomfortable?"

Archie's question made him look up, puzzled. "What?"

The tech pulled his headphones down around his neck. "You, um, keep fidgeting around."

Nick's brow creased and he realized that he'd been unable to find a position that that didn't put too much pressure on his tender ribs. No matter how much he leaned on his right forearm, nothing eased the ever-growing strain. Wasn't like the audio and visual department provided the pillows or cushions to help brace the weak side of his chest.

"I'm good," he muttered but even as he reclined back to prove his point, his elbow was right there, digging into his side.

"I could snag an office chair. It's got more back support and the armrests are---"

Nick's hand flew up, cutting him off. "No, I'm fine, boss. In fact, I might go walk around and stretch my legs a bit."

He stood and did his best impression of a Weeble, his knee now adding its voice in protest at being _active_? _Inactive_?

Damn, the past couple of hours consisted of nothing but sitting! With countless people 'dropping by' to say hello and giving him suspiciously well-planned opportunities to chat and take it even easier. It was a wonder he'd made any headway at all with his _case_. He suspected his role was merely as back up catcher.

"Don't forget your log."

"My what?" he queried, a hand planted firmly on the console to help hoist him up.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Anytime you leave your station, there's a form to fill out."

Nick started laughing but quickly realized Archie was serious. Annoyed at such trivial bureaucracy he bent over to find the proper screen to fill in the little columns.

"There've been quite a few changes since you've been gone."

For some reason that stung more than it should and his good mood evaporated. Now critically lacking his earlier ease of movement, he held himself rigid and tried to walk without the limp he came in with. Maybe his supply of protein bars remained intact in the bowels of one of the cupboards.

The words _no, thank you _were universal weren't they? Never did he think they disguised a _yes, I'm just shy, please ask me again. _This didn't stop Sara, or Greg for that matter, from trying to shove birthday cake down his throat. Why cake anyways? Was there some rule that demanded that the overly sugary baked good was required for the celebration of everything?

He stared at the cake, the words _Happy Birt-- _in loopy cursive still adorned the top. It had obviously been recycled from other occasion. The yellow sponge substance with white icing lay untouched on his paper plate. He had the --_ay_ and a pink rose.

It was weird going from the quiet confines of his living room to the hustle and bustle of the Lab. The TV was blaring with the news, the last person having forgotten to turn the thing down. Greg and Sara couldn't decide if they were chatting with each other or playing verbal tennis with him, each asking him a different question without allowing him enough time to reply before one of them would strike up some other type of conversation.

Greg was a real chatterbox, hopped up on caffeinated drinks. At least he seemed unaffected by his accident. The two were so animated it almost tricked him into believing things were back to normal. Except for the dark circles under Sara's eyes and the beginning of the raccoon markings on Greg of all people.

Not to mention his hand's almost permanent grip on the counter behind him, his lean not enough to alleviate the strain of being on his feet this long.

"You know, if Sara's eating the cake then you should too." Greg coughed quietly and his eyes shifted to Nick's untouched dessert.

Sara smiled as she shoved another forkful in, mumbling something only slightly coherent about butter cream frosting.

"Since when do you advocate junk food, Greg? Thought you were on a health kick."

The other CSI held his next fork load at his mouth. "Since you began wearing jeans the same size as Warrick's."

The right buttons now pushed he swallowed the stupid cake even though he wanted to spit it out. It tasted like gooey sawdust.

He was saved from eating the rest when a familiar snide voice poked his head in. "Hey, kids, got your results. Unless of course you're too busy chomping on cake," Hodges declared.

Greg was too busy trying to swallow so Sara dumped her plate and grabbed his arm and pulled the rookie away, apologizing as they dashed away. "Been waiting on these."

Nick waved her on and nodded a _what's up? _to the tech.

"Guess you'll have the honor of refreshing your skills with me sometime later."

The CSI readjusted his heavy lean and shook his head. He was spared more sarcasm as Hodges was also jerked back by an impatient Sara. Nick closed his eyes in relief. God, he was so tired and the night was still young. His partner's voice from the other night mocked him about coming back so early.

_Time to get back on that horse Stokes_, he chided. It wasn't the time to let some lingering soreness hold him back. He shuffled over to the other end of the room to chuck his plate away gratefully, wiping his hands free of crumbs, then began his trek back to his business for the night. He'd only made it a few steps when his left foot landed awkwardly. The shift in weight reverberated into locking up his knee.

He was left flailing, literally, one arm wrapped around his middle in reflexive protection, the other trying to reach out for something to keep him from falling and really causing some damage. Just as he gave up hope and readied for his inevitable fall, an arm slipped around his waist, catching him and holding him in place.

He leaned on the smaller body, limping heavily towards the couch near the TV, lowered himself down onto the cushions, and waited to catch his breath.

After allowing a minute to let the pain ebb away, he looked up into the face of his benefactor, a blush in his cheeks at being caught almost falling flat on his face.

His eyes rose to see Wendy smiling at him.

"Looked like you were shaky on your pins… thought you could use a hand," she said, smile widening.

"Yeah," he stammered out. "Thanks. Just lost my balance for a sec," he said, trying to play it off, then realizing that his fingers were kneading deep into the muscle of his thigh above where the unseen brace ended.

"Working with one leg can do that to a guy. I, uh… I blew out my elbow playing tennis last spring…" She paused and gulped, blushing lightly. "_Not _that it's _anything_ like… I mean … anyway…" and she pulled a Ziploc with ice out of her smock pocket. It was sweating in the warm lab air and Nick stared at it dripping on the break room floor. "I know ice was sometimes the only thing that made it any better so, I figured …" She thrust the baggie at him and he reached up with a grateful grin.

"Thanks, Wendy. You're a real doll, ya know that?"

She snorted. "Yeah! Lab Tech Barbie. Instead of shoes and a purse she comes with buccal swabs and a DNA sequencer. Used condom sold separately. Of course, once the little girls see her ensemble," she said, holding out her arms like a catalog model, " they'll come running. Gotta love the _ever _so flattering shapeless blue lab coat," she said with another giggle-snort that stopped short as she looked down at herself. The whole front of her lab coat was a shiny, wet dark blue from where the ice pack had melted through her pocket.

She blushed a deeper red, looked up with a forlorn embarrassed grimace. "Maybe you oughta call me Betsy-Wetsy instead, huh?"

Nick put the baggie down, half rising to help, which seemed to disconcert her more.

"No! No… I should go …" and she gestured at her front, then waved her hand in the general direction of the lab beyond the break room door. "You … stay. I'll, uh… I'm glad you're back," she said with a small nod then quickly fled.

Nick cocked his head, his thoughts floating back to other things he'd heard mentioned, eyebrows rising as he bought a clue, then shook his head with a laugh and eased himself back into the couch.

The bag of ice sat there, waiting. Of course, it probably wouldn't penetrate the heavy fabric and plastic currently wrapping his knee like armor. Just putting his leg up might be enough to ease some of the pain…but it wasn't even mid-shift and everyone else was buzzing around like worker bees and here he was sitting on his … but then not everyone else got caught in a damn bomb blast, either … but they'd all been working 'round the clock and he hadn't heard a peep outa anyone about being tired or wanting a break … but it'd only be a few minutes; just enough to ease him a little and he'd be much more productive … _nice excuse, Stokes_…

The smell of tea roses hit his nose before he felt her presence. He looked up to see an older woman in a smart tweed suit and practical shoes, short strawberry blonde hair and a curious look on her face.

"Can I help you?" he asked, rising stiffly from the couch. She didn't look like much of a threat but strangers in the lab, especially with all the media scrutiny they'd been under, had him suspicious. Then he caught the visitor's badge. One of the long term ones - even had her photo in a small neat square like his.

She thrust a hand forward which he took tentatively, her grasp firm, her hand warm and small in his. "Penelope Lovejoy, MI-5. Currently attached to your police department. You must be the young man I've heard so much about."

He raised eyebrows at this. "Hope it was all good," he said with a chuckle. "Nick Stokes."

"Knew I couldn't be mistaken after hearing the accent," she said smiling. "Not one often heard on my side of the pond, short of the occasional cowboy movie and, of course, your President."

"Mind if I ask what brings you so far, Ms. Lovejoy?"

"Well… may I?" she asked, gesturing at the open section of couch.

"Of course, sorry." He scooched over to the end and turned to face her at the other end. She popped her shoes off and wiggled her stocking-clad feet in the air. "What I wouldn't give to be in a pair of Levis and my Docs. But one must be aware of appearances. So. You asked what brings me here to "Sin City". Would you believe me if I told you it was to see Wayne Newton?"

"Ol' Wayne does pull 'em in from all over, ma'am," Nick said with a smirk. "Can't deny it."

"Well, I must admit, he was rather attractive in his youth. Although," she said slyly, "he's really no Tom Jones, is he? Even so, I think he still 'has it' as they say. Maybe after all this unpleasantness is over I can take in a show."

"I have a friend in the box office at the Flamingo. Just say the word. And speaking of unpleasantness … you were telling me why you're here."

"Straight to the point, eh, Mr. Stokes? Good. I like that." She brushed her hands over her lap as if clearing it for conversation. "I am here to aid in the investigation of the series of bombings your city has been subjected to. My… expertise was requested rather high up in British Parliament. I am here, officially, as an observer, to lend a hand where requested. Thankfully, your Dr. Grissom is a completely non-political man and has no problem in allowing my help. He's accepted it unreservedly. Very smart, astute man, your boss."

"No doubt about that, ma'am. Smartest man I know."

"He speaks rather highly of you as well, Mr. Stokes. We were discussing hydrocarbon trace and he told me how you were able to determine a body had been burned below a particular tree a full year before. Not an easy job, that. He even admitted that it had been on a case he'd closed when it first crossed his desk."

Nick quirked an eyebrow at that. The Rita Westonson case had been back in January. And the way he recalled it, it had ended with him dropping some insults in Grissom's lap.

"This was Gil Grissom you were talkin' to, right? About yay high, glasses, frown. Talks about bugs a lot?"

She chortled, her voice melodic and deep. "Yes. Yes, he does tend to prattle on about his beloved insects, but yes. It was one and the same. He's not the only one. I could tell your presence was greatly missed."

He bowed his head, embarrassed. "Well, I missed bein' here." He cleared his throat. "So. You guys get any further on the bombings or the guy's identity?"

"Sadly, no. We have no survivors from the explosion at the brewery, and no one saw anything at the bakery either."

Nick shook his head. "That night was … been wrackin' my brain but still a few holes there."

"I would imagine so. The place must have been a madhouse, what with the footie match. Liverpool took 'em by the way, in case you were interested," she said, twinkle in her eye.

"Hell, I missed my Cowboys play all their opening games! Best frickin' start to the season in years, too."

"Ah, so you have a _hint_ of an idea of the fervor we bring to our football matches. I imagine there were a lot of sad faces in Manchester that next day. Mancunians are fierce about their teams. City and United games have the city swimming in blue and red scarves. It's quite a scene. I imagine you got a good look at something similar at The George."

"Yeah. Yeah, the scarves were…" He faltered. "The scarves were, um, mostly red. Some were red and black, I think."

She nodded. "I would imagine there must have been fans of other teams there of course, just enjoying a match regardless of the players. Ex-pats getting a taste of home as it were. Did you see any other colors? Green or purple maybe? Orange or blue?"

He thought back to that night. "There were almost a hundred guys in the pub. Thought we were bad with the face paint," he laughed shortly. "No… pretty much red and black … although…"

He stopped and unconsciously his hand returned to his thigh to rub at the flesh above his brace.

"I remember a purple rose, I think. Green around it maybe? Nah, probably just filling in the blanks with what you're telling me."

"I never mentioned the rose, Mr. Stokes."

Now that made him pause.

He studied her and found she was studying him right back.

"Are you _interrogating_ me?" he asked with an attempt at a laugh.

She smiled. "You _are _good. Dr. Grissom was right. 30 years in MI-5, Mr. Stokes. I see I need to brush up a bit. Tell me about the rose."

"Not much to tell. Not even really sure I saw it. Why? What's a purple rose got to do with anything?"

"It's the symbol for the Carnie Premier League. A football club. Do you recall where you may or may not have seen it?"

His fingers dug into his leg more deeply and he blew out a long breath, leaning back against the couch. His other hand brushed against something cold and wet and he startled, pulling his hand back and looking down to find the now mostly melted bag of ice Wendy had brought in.

Wiping his hand slowly on his pants he closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

He summoned up the image he'd flashed on before, an ugly purple rose against a green background. Where the frick had he seen the damn thing?

"It wasn't a scarf," he said shortly, eyes still closed. "Wasn't a t-shirt logo. Smaller."

"Was it on a hat or an emblem on a jersey? A button perhaps?"

"A patch. A patch on a dark blue background. Maybe. I don't know." He opened his eyes in frustration. "Maybe it was a button, or maybe I just imagined the whole thing."

"I highly doubt that, Mr. Stokes. That you would have ever even seen the image in relation to an Irish Premier League division is highly unlikely."

"It's an Irish soccer team symbol?"

"Northern Irish to be precise. Not politic to call them the same thing. Trust me."

She appeared to ponder something, her lips pursing lightly. "The presence of a man wearing an IPL patch at a British pub could be considered odd, although the league knows none of the usual divisions found in the country. One of the few things that unites them, actually."

She slapped her hands down on her lap. "Well done, Mr. Stokes. You've given us a possible line of inquiry."

He shook his head. "A maybe memory of a purple rose isn't much, ma'am."

"You're an investigator by trade, Mr. Stokes. I trust your observations. If you think you saw one, you most likely did."

The considering look was back and Nick squirmed under her gaze.

"I hope you realize how fortunate a man you are, Mr. Stokes. What you survived… I lost my husband seven years ago. Bomb in a train station. He was on his way to pick up theatre tickets for our anniversary. He always preferred opera but I found it too stuffy. But, of course…"

A high pitched whine assaulted his ears, blanketing out her words and he watched her lips move as she continued talking, apparently oblivious to the sound herself. He raised a hand to his ear and cupped it, and he could _feel_ the air pressure change but it did nothing to change the hum that filled his head like a swarm of bees.

He watched as her lips stopped moving and she stared sorrowfully at him. She put out a hand to touch his shoulder gently and he shook his head lightly as her voice slammed back into place.

"-- prattling on like a fool. You don't need any more reminders, I'm sorry."

She said it very matter of factly, then smiled and stood. "I hope we can talk again later. And don't think I won't remember your offer to get me in to see Wayne. I understand tickets can be very difficult to get and I have no qualms about using connections to get what I want."

She stuck a hand out that Nick rose unsteadily to take. "Thanks, Mrs. Lovejoy. And I won't forget. In fact--"

Greg came tearing around the corner of the lab, feet sliding on the linoleum in his haste as he tried to stop.

"Ms. Lovejoy! Grissom wanted me to come find you. There was another bomb found."

"Of course, Mr. Sanders. Thank you. Mr. Stokes? If you'll pardon my abrupt leave-taking?" And she hustled after Greg.

Nick was left standing in the break room, watching as bodies rushed past the doorway out to the newest scene.

A minute later it was quiet and he sighed. Picked up the bag of what was now pure water and tossed it in the garbage pail as he made his way back to the A/V lab, hours more footage to be gone through, trying to find that needle.

* * *

"So is there some kinda reward?"

Vartann shook his head. "You can't put a price on being a good Samaritan, sir." He could only hope the contractor in front of him- complete with generous beer belly, faded tattoo sleeves on both arms, and a mane of shaggy hair pulled back by a black skull-covered bandana- would know the definition of the word.

Steel blue eyes just stared from the hulking six -four frame, duly unimpressed. The detective glanced back at the posh restaurant roped off with yellow crime tape; the place swarmed with police, emergency workers and a raging press further off in the distance.

"Am I ever gonna get my tools?" The big guy spit on the ground and peered back up. "You know how much a set of Craftsmans costs?"

Before he could supply an answer the crowd of cops and hordes of bustling people parted like the Red Sea, revealing the triumvirate of power: Gil Grissom with his field kit, Conrad Ecklie, his pitch fork hidden under the layers of his trench coat, and the British spy-woman who'd been dogging the halls of the Lab like a hound following a scent trail.

Vartann pulled out his notepad, ready to download his intel to the three coming towards him, eyes searching the crowd and catching members of the Graveyard shift interacting with the bomb squad, undoubtedly waiting for the all clear to begin processing the scene.

Harley Davidson guy scratched as his graying beard. Alex wondered if the man owned a pair of leather chaps and had just left them at home. Once the power trio was there, obviously waiting, the detective cleared his throat.

"This is Joe Claymore, a plumber hired to fix a water main break that flooded the basement. It's where they housed the refrigerators that stored all the fresh meat."

"Which delayed the opening by a day or two," Grissom filled in as he quirked an eyebrow.

"Dumb luck," Ecklie muttered under his breath, pulling his coat around against a gust of wind.

The beefy man for some reason took offense to the remark and glared at the AD. Was probably a brain and ears that only caught the first word and filled in the rest. Alex exhaled slowly as he addressed their only witness. "This is Conrad Ecklie and Gil Grissom of the crime lab, and this is..." the detective paused not so sure on how to complete the introductions.

Lovejoy smiled as she finished his thought. "Just an outside observer," she said to the burly guy. "So, it seems that Vegas was spared the loss of another over glorified Gordon Ramsay knock off. I'm sure the palates of many will be thankful that the health inspectors in the States are more vigilant than the reviewers of the Food and Wine section of the local paper."

All eyes were on the older lady. "A pity that most of the money was spent on tinsel and lights, instead of a proper four star chef."

Alex tapped his pen on his notebook as Grissom simply stood looking amused. "Mr. Claymore had just entered through the maintenance area when he saw 'a guy with a tool box' come from a stairwell. This man froze for a second then darted away when he spotted Mr. Claymore."

"What did you do next?" Ecklie butted in, interrupting the detective's statement.

Two broad arms crossed over a massive puffed-out chest, eying the bureaucrat as a bug that needed to be squashed.

"Where are your manners, Mr. Ecklie? Let this local hero talk," Lovejoy's voice cooed, winking at the subject of their conversation.

The plumber had no idea how easily he'd just been played, and he smiled at her. "Guy acted like he didn't belong, but he was quick on his feet. I saw him jump onto some equipment near an open window and jet out." He shrugged. "This place looks pretty fancy- thought he might have stolen somethin'."

Three sets of eyes were on the plumber as Vartann tried to speed things along. "Mr. Claymore went to inspect further when he spotted some suspicious looking things near the boiler."

"What type of things?" Grissom inquired.

The man rubbed his coarse beard. "Saw wires, some kind of metal container, something that smelled funny. So I called the cops."

"Squad cars arrived, took one look, then our specialty unit showed up and took care of the devices."

"There was more than one?"

The British accented voice brought them all around, and the detective nodded. "Two bombs. Both have been dismantled. We're just waiting on a couple more sweeps."

"Bloody good luck."

Grissom let his lips curl into a wan grin, but his eyes shone with the enthusiasm of the Brit. "Yes. It looks like we just doubled up."

"Think your guys can get something off of two devices for once, or should I get someone from Days to take the lead?"

Grissom didn't look at his superior, simply turned his gaze over towards Lovejoy. "No, I think we'll do just fine, and with the help of the lovely Penelope, we can ID the trademark of our itchy bomber."

Ecklie rolled his eyes, but it was the Brit who asked the next question. Alex wondered who was really conducting the interview.

"Did you get a good look at the lad?" she asked Claymore.

The plumber shrugged. "Wasn't tryin' to get to know him. Dark haired dude."

"Catch any details about how old he was? His size, his clothes?" Alex asked, hoping for more.

"Sorry, man. He was about six foot, looked fit, but he wore dark clothes, pants. Pretty much a Joe Blow."

The trio pumped their annoyed witness for more information, but except for the request for some whiskey and a smoke, the guy had nothing else to add to the conversation. The scene was cleared for Grissom's team to begin their scavenger hunt for more clues, but the precious mother load would be taken to the lab. The supervisor remained to hash out more theories.

"Two bombs- twice the firepower." Alex felt the need to state the obvious change.

Eyebrows knitted as Grissom nodded. "A change in pattern."

"Indeed. A bigger statement perhaps?"

Grissom turned to the Brit. "Why? What changed?"

The stout woman cocked her head. "The time in between the bombings. He went from days, to a week, and now almost two months later."

"Something happened."

Alex had almost forgotten about Ecklie as the Ad continued. "An impulsive pattern was broken. Perhaps he left town?"

"Or he was in the system for another crime," Grissom added.

"Injury? We had a bloke who targeted churches on every fifth Sunday for months, until one of his little buggers nearly did him in. We tracked him down using hospital records of accidents involving chemical burns, explosions or fire."

"Do it," Ecklie ordered.

Grissom looked peeved, his only change in demeanor, yet again a more reasonable voice prevailed, one seasoned with political savvy and a British accent. "I'll help, as I know your team has enough to handle with two brand new shiny bombs."

"What about targets? Are we back to alcohol?" Alex asked, trying to keep things in focus.

"The third site was a bakery," Grissom reminded him.

Ecklie chewed on his bottom lip. "Back to the whole British theme again, then."

"The bakery was owned by a Japanese company." Grissom's tone seemed on edge, testy even.

Conrad barked back, the two like bickering dogs scrapping over a bone. The detective kept tight-lipped as tempers flared.

"Well, Gil, maybe our guy didn't know that. He hasn't demonstrated much skill or finesse here. The first three targets have ties to British concerns."

"This new restaurant has no known connections to anything back home,_ gentlemen,_" a clipped voice interrupted, trying to reel them back in.

The men stopped trading jabs to accept that, Grissom turning to Lovejoy with a smile. "Can you verify that, please?"

"Certainly, Dr. Grissom." Lovejoy's voice instantly reverted back to her normal cheery tone, then she bustled off to check her sources.

Grissom turned to face the scene and watched as each team member tagged in the other. He held his head up high, proud of their roles, of the ebb and flow of the unit. His left eye twitched. The symphony wasn't complete with one critical instrument missing. Though like the booming rise of a composition each section compensated, knowing that, in time, horn, string, flute, woodwind and drum would merge once again.

The supervisor closed his eyes and could hear the trumpets and the rumble of percussion swell. The final act was approaching and there was a running discord under the otherwise perfect performance. A key was off, the tones dragged down into swirling disharmony.

Something wasn't right.

He exhaled slowly, hating this sense of trepidation. They were missing something, or was he? He shook his head, unable to figure out where this itch of paranoia was coming from. He scanned the scene, his people, and back to the sea of swirling lights. Too much, too many variables to distinguish what was screaming at him.

He picked up his kit, knowing the answer was right there... He just hoped that he'd be able to untangle all of the distractions to see what was demanding his attention, screaming that 'something' right in front of his face.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

"Why do we always come up here on the roof?"

"Because the last time I checked, smoking wasn't allowed in the lab," Bobby replied with a sigh, fingers tapping at a new game on his cell phone.

Hodges peered over the ledge of the building scouting out the parking lot.

"If you plan on jumping, try doing it when we're not here, so we don't get charged with not stopping you," Wendy said with a pointed look.

"It's not high enough," Mia chimed in, fanning a hand in front of her face.

As if satisfied with his inspection Hodges sauntered over towards the grave shift's DNA tech. "Better question is, why are _you_ up here? You don't smoke. In fact, you hate it."

"I came up here for air... everyone else just followed behind me," Mia answered, examining her manicure.

Archie chuckled. "Hodges, most of us don't. It's just an excuse to get away from work. It's more acceptable to come out here on a 'smoke break', than it is to go the lounge."

Wendy took a drag, "Those of us who actually take part do enjoy the company. _Usually_. I mean, what does it matter? Heck, Sanders still comes out here with the rest of us, and he doesn't like cigarettes."

Four sets of eyes landed on the lone CSI slumped on the dusty roof, oblivious to the fact that he was the focus of their conversation.

"Someone needs to get some more sleep," Bobby remarked not unkindly.

"That would require that same person to know what a bed is to begin with, and the sofa in the break room doesn't count," Archie reminded the Georgian.

"What can I say, gentlemen? Some people fill in the void from the lack of a real social life with work."

Mia glared at Hodges. "You would know."

The tech smirked back, toothy grin spread across his face. "Oh, I forgot, your calendar is always full. Speaking of, how was your date with Stokes?"

Even Greg's ears perked up a little as Mia shot invisible daggers with her eyes. "It wasn't a date. We ate lunch. End of story."

"Oh, yeah? Where?"

Mia rolled her eyes. "Cha Am."

Archie grinned at Hodge's confused expression and Mia's growing amusement. "I don't think he goes anywhere that doesn't offer an all-you-can-eat option."

"Not my fault I have a high metabolism," they heard the man grumble under his breath.

"That place sure is hot."

Confused faces turned to the Georgian, who looked incredulous. "Talkin' bout the food... Thai is spicy. But, I know Stokes has a high tolerance for the hot stuff. "

Everyone grinned, though Wendy looked less than thrilled, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

"I knew that," Hodges said testily.

"So, who paid?" Greg butted in.

"Awww, the monk breaks his silence."

"Not all monks take those vows, but I could imagine they'd practice it in your company, Hodges." Mia turned to Greg who sat looking at them, chin rested on a hand propped up by his knees.

Mia blew out a long breath at her enrapt audience. "Is this another one of those Maxim quizzes on the rules of dating-- which this wasn't-- and the erroneous meanings behind who picks up the check?"

"That means he did." Bobby made the 'gimme' gesture to Archie for some unspoken bet.

If her eyes zapped people like her glare intended, there'd be a pile of cindered ash remains from many bodies.

"Well, Nick is old fashioned." Wendy said nonchalantly as she tapped another smoke out of its pack.

"Actually, we went Dutch." Mia folded her arms, then with a dramatic sigh and a roll of her neck she began her way back to the stairwell. "You guys keep sewing in your circle; I have real work to do."

As the playground lost a member they could hear Wendy murmur something about knowing it wasn't a real date.

"You wanna tell us who kicked your dog?" Archie asked, nudging Greg who sat rubbing at his eyes.

"Nah, he looks more like a guy whose credit card was declined at dinner, flat tire afterwards, and burping into the mouth of said first and soon to be last date." Bobby held up his hands. "Hey, happened to a buddy of mine."

The 'uh-huhs' were all believing.

"Seriously, Greg, you okay?" Archie tried again.

Greg's hand moved to the back of his neck massaging it deeply. "My eyes are ready to bleed, the calluses on my fingers have calluses and I jump every time someone walks into the Lab. I can't come up with any more synonyms for _I haven't found anything yet."_

"Your search still a bust?"

Greg didn't seem to have the energy to scowl at the ballistics tech.

"You're still trying to find a connection between all four locations?" Wendy wandered over and sat down next to the Level One.

He ran his hands through his hair, raking it in all directions in agitation.

"Hate to tell you, but you still need a comb."

Bobby punched Hodges in the arm.

Greg bolted up with a sudden jolt of energy, irritably pacing a groove into the roof. "I've been given the task of finding the Holy freakin' Grail... a whole week staring at a computer screen, ransacking the microfilm in the basement, and I've got nothing to show for it but these."

He splayed his fingers out, palms up; fingertips reddened, with indentions in his spiraled fingerprints.

"Okay, let's talk this out." Archie stepped forward. "You went over Lexis, Gigablast, Buildfind, and all the other database searches?"

"Yes."

"What parameters?" the AV Tech urged.

"You name it. I scoured for corporate ownerships, dummy companies, stockholder commonalities, distant relatives."

"No dice, huh?"

"Snake eyes," Greg grumbled.

"So, not a single link from a property or proprietorship standpoint," Archie got that distant look in his eyes while mulling things aloud.

Greg's frustration intensified as he went over the worn ground of his fruitless endeavors. "I checked employee histories for grievance claims, accidental deaths or injuries, crimes committed on location or by fellow workers. Nothing."

"They all had a connection to booze except for the bakery- you try that?" Wendy prodded from her seat.

He dropped his hands from where he'd still been dragging painfully at his hair and his pace quickened as he held up a finger to punctuate each word. "Vintners associations, BAFT, The American Beverage Institute, Adams Alcohol Resource database. I covered every two bit brewery and beyond. Not to mention---"

Hodges held his hands aloft. "We get it, Sanders. No known information linking the restaurant, brewer and bar. Maybe the guy just hates drunks."

"And cakes," Bobby added.

Greg threw his hands up in anger. "It's so random, guys. The buildings and property have nothing in common. If there were people he was after, then I don't have a clue. Pub patrons, factory workers, sweet tooths, and connoisseurs of overpriced pasta."

"Did you try just typing in all the names in a Boolean string to see what popped up?"

Greg's eyes nearly bugged out at Archie, the tech's face expressing the opinion that his question was along the lines of 'you think 2+2 equals 4?'

Hodges and Wendy were silenced by the dramatic wait; the only thing missing was the organ playing.

"Well, no. I mean... I mean, that's crazy, right?" the rookie stuttered even while his feet took him towards the exit, the other three hot on his heels.

* * *

"Should have been put in medical records, only one thing to look for," Greg grumbled as he logged onto the Internet.

The trio of techs huddled around him, Archie looking on intently. Greg took a deep breath, typed in the four seemingly random locations, and hit enter.

Archie leaned forward the most, but every eye was waiting on the results.

Greg blinked twice, rubbing at his eyes. Each location in bolded letters. Each location part of the same web archive. Each site of a disaster held one common connection.

"Channel Four news?" Greg's confusion echoed in the humming room.

"Callie Christopher's news archive to be precise," Archie mumbled just as shocked.

"Our mad bomber is a news junkie?" Hodges snorted.

Greg swiveled to face his former fellow tech, mouth hung open like groupie meeting his rock star idol. "I think you just cracked the case, Arch."

Archie's eyes grew wide, unable to come up with a proper response.

"Are you going to drop this on the boss?" Wendy asked, eyes glued to the words on the screen.

"Well, I've got a meeting I need to be at...shit!" Greg looked at his watch. "I'm already late... jeez."

Archie ushered him away. "Tell you what, I'll look into this, work on it a bit, so you have something a bit more polished to present. So, go to your meeting, but as soon as you can, come back here and I'll have everything you need for your report."

Greg had a hard time budging but it was obvious that this find needed to be examined bit further and shouldn't be reported without a closer look. "Yeah... that's probably a good idea."

The rookie almost stumbled away from the computer, hands franticly trying to smooth down his hair and straighten out a double shift's worth of wrinkles in his shirt. "I'll be back here in no time...and, man...thanks, Archie. You really saved my butt."

The AV tech just gave him a _don't worry about it _wave as he sat down to his keyboard and began to dig in.

* * *

"Where's Greg?"

"Last I saw he was in the computer lab," Catherine said, looking up from her paperwork.

"Nope. Not there," Sara piped up. "I went in to grab him for the meeting. The screensaver was on- his new Scarlett Johansson one- so he's been away at least twenty minutes."

Gil sighed. "Let's just hope Ecklie doesn't catch the 'unofficial' use of copyrighted materials. Okay. Let's start and I'm sure Greg'll be along when he can. Cath? What about the Milewski case?"

"Well," Catherine said, glasses applied as she consulted her results. "Trace was positive for accelerant use, butane to be exact. And our vic turns out to be our fire starter. Mr. Milewski was looking at divorce and alimony payment number three. His empty rental property was insured for 750 thousand. Considering Doc found a lighter fluid can melted to his hand it looks pretty clear. Arson unit said the guy squirted down the building as he was walking through it instead of behind him as he left. After he threw the match he was boxed in." She put down her glasses with a shrug. "Guess I'm ready for whatever you wanna give me."

"Good." Gil relaxed a bit in his chair. "I have two up for grabs. Would you prefer a soft ball or a tough one?"

"That's a loaded question if I've ever heard one," she said, raising eyebrows in surprise. She looked over at Sara who was looking obscenely perky and ready to go but her co-worker's face fell.

"I've still got miles to go on my 401A. I have tire tracks and paint samples from five different cars."

Catherine turned to Nick who was there more out of tradition than his ability to take field calls yet. The Texan didn't return her look, seemingly more interested in a spot on the table in front of him.

She returned back to Gil. "Well, no Greg and Warrick's out so I guess I get both?" she asked with an understanding smile on her face and Gil nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"The one should be a cakewalk, Catherine. 426A. Complainant is the boy's mother. He's three months shy of his sixteenth birthday and the girl turned sixteen last month." He fumbled on his own reading glasses and read the index card in his hand. "She wants, quote, that Jezebel prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. End quote. Hospital already did a SART and found nothing showing he had sex with the girl. Mom apparently found them making out in his bedroom after choir practice."

Sara and Cath both sucked in their breath in sorrow for the poor kid.

"Wow. Tough mom. I should tell Lindsey I'm not the meanest mom out there."

Grissom looked over at Nick who had made no comment. Normally there should have been some input from the man- some jibe, or indignation for the kid. Instead he saw Nick swallow several times, eyes fixed squarely ahead of him.

"Nick? You okay?"

The younger man looked up, blinked and squinted, lips twisting in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry. I got the labs back on the Juarez murder, definite for Pedro Escobar's DNA, and I'm runnin' video of the traffic cameras on Sara's hit 'n' run."

Gil cocked his head. The non sequitor response was disconcerting. "Okay. Good. Thanks."

Nick nodded, lips pressed together so tightly they whitened. "You have something else you need done?"

"No. No. The traffic footage is important."

He watched as Nick's eyes returned to the tabletop.

Still watching Nick out of the corner of his eye he returned his attention to Catherine. "The other is a 419 with suspicious circs. You may as well call David and have him meet you out there. I think Mommie Dearest can wait," he said with a small smile.

"Sara? You have -"

"Paint. Lots of paint. And tire treads. On it!" she said with only partly forced brightness.

Nick got up and followed the two women out of the conference room headed in the direction of the AV lab. Grissom noted his limp was not as bad as it had been when he'd first come back and hoped that boded well for the young man. It wasn't until Nick rounded the corner just out of view that the supervisor noticed something off about his gait.

Drawing some disturbing conclusions in his head he began to follow after Nick, only to be brought up short as the Assistant Director cut him off at a hallway intersection.

"Gil. Glad I caught you. We have a sit-down with McKeen in five. He's been haunting the halls tonight; wants to know what you have on the restaurant bombing attempt."

"Conrad, if I had something to share I would have told you the moment we had it. I'm not going to waste my time or the Under Sheriff's time sitting with him to tell him we have nothing."

"I'm bringing in Jane Bond," the AD snarked. "McKeen fawns all over her like she's royalty or something. Practically gets a hard on every time she uses some British-ism. Never woulda thought Jeff to be an Anglophile. Pictured him more as the Fox News and History Channel type. Anyway, by the time he notices you in the room you can feed him some science-y sounding bullshit and that'll keep him happy for a while."

Gil sighed long and loudly. "I have FIVE minutes for him. I'll give him what we have on the physical makeup of the device."

"See?" Conrad said, clapping him on the back. "Hey, I even sprang for donuts. Just to show I'm a good guy." He smiled broadly, every tooth in his head showing.

"Funny how there's money for donuts when it's the Under Sheriff in the meeting, Conrad."

The smile fell and Conrad straightened his tie, looked pointedly at his watch, and said, "Now it's three minutes." He turned on his heels and walked away.

Grissom shot another look down the hall, let loose another beleaguered sigh, then headed to his office to pick up his 'science-y bullshit'.

* * *

Twenty minutes later a very pissed off entomologist left the conference room fuming, folder slapping out his frustrations against his thigh. Lovejoy's charms notwithstanding the Under Sheriff was only interested in hearing about progress and Grissom had very little to offer.

And watching Ecklie shoving cruller after cruller into his mouth while he sat back and enjoyed the show had fired up the cold pit of anger in his gut to a nice healthy flame. It had taken every ounce of steel left in him to keep his cool, allowing himself only a smug comment about the donut grease on Conrad's Hermès tie before he practically fled the meeting.

He stopped by his office and dropped the folder off on his desk. The messages button on his phone remained dark, leaving him relieved at one less thing needing his attention and disappointed that no news was forthcoming from any of his people.

His wanderings took him by the AV lab, and he poked his head in to see Archie sitting at a computer, fingers flying on the keyboard. "Hey, Archie. Have you seen Greg or Nick?"

"Yeah- Greg was in here about half an hour ago. Said something about being late for a meeting."

"We finished our meeting early."

"Oh, well, then I have no idea where he is. But I might have something for you on the connection thing Greg's been working on."

"Really? Anything ready to share?"

"Um, no. Still early stages but I think it's a hot trail."

"Great, Archie. Don't let me disturb you any further – but, wait… isn't Nick supposed to be going over traffic cam footage?"

"Haven't seen him since he went into the meeting, Grissom. "

"Okay. Thanks. If you see him, let him know I'm looking for him, would you? Greg too for that matter."

"Sure." The Asian returned to his screen, fingers tapping avidly once more.

The supervisor strode the halls, head peeping into various labs, giving a small wave to Sara slaving over a machine doing a spectral analysis of her auto accident evidence, then moving on past ballistics, trace, and DNA.

No sign of either man.

The lab was large but as he thought on it he realized where Nick would likely be.

His hand shoved open the wooden swinging door of the men's room. A pair of familiar boots poked out from the far end of the room next to the last stall.

"Nick?"

He approached softly to find Nick sitting on the floor, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. He was as pale as the tile surrounding him.

"Nick," he said again, softly.

Brown eyes sprung open, startled, quickly looking away in embarrassment. "Yeah. Sorry."

"Sorry for what, Nick?"

"Sittin' down on the job." His voice was low and gravelly.

"Migraine?"

"That obvious?"

"To one who knows, yes. Unfortunately, I'm intimately familiar with them." He crouched down, knees cracking as he squatted down to Nick's level.

"Nausea, sensitivity to light, the tilt to your head and your gait. Textbook."

He pried his phone out of his pocket, pushing a few buttons, then handed the phone over.

"Here. Just push send. Call your doctor."

Nick's eyes widened in surprise. Grissom didn't know whether to chuckle or wince at the disbelief he saw that he had Nick's doctor's number in his phone.

"Just call him, Nick. He can prescribe something for you."

The younger man's eyes closed for a minute and his head rocked on the tile. "I already got pills. Isn't my first one."

Now it was the supervisor's turn to be surprised. "How many?"

"Two. One the day before I was supposed to be discharged. Almost didn't tell 'em cuz I thought they wouldn't let me go. Another my first week home."

"Do you have your medication with you?"

"Yeah. Didn't work though. Really thought I could nip it in the bud before it got so bad. Took 'em too late. They didn't last long," he said, frowning and wiping at his mouth as he gestured towards the toilets.

"Imitrex?"

"Yeah."

"It comes in an auto-injector for just this reason. Call your doctor's service. Leave a message to have him to call it into the pharmacy and I'll pick one up for you on the way to taking you home."

"No … Gris -"

"No, Nick. I know all your objections. You're going home."

He knew how bad Nick was when he saw how quickly the y0unger man relented, pushed the button and closed his eyes as he waited for the office to pick up.

Grissom got up from his crouch and paced a few feet away to give Nick some privacy, walking over to the sinks and washing his hands for no reason other than to allow the running water to act as a noise muffler.

When it sounded like the conversation was over he threw away the brown paper towels and returned to find Nick had pulled himself to a stand, still leaning heavily against the stall frame.

"What did they say?"

"His PA was on call and the service reached her. She called in a 'scrip. There's a Walgreens by my house …" He paused and swallowed, green tinting his pallor.

"I know it," Grissom hurriedly reassured him. "On Pearl. C'mon. We'll stop by the locker room and grab your coat."

Nick just nodded tiredly and followed him out of the rest room.

Where they met Conrad Ecklie.

"Gil. Nick. Are we holding meetings in the men's room now? I don't believe I got an invite."

"I'm taking Nick home, Conrad. Nick, why don't you go get your coat. I'll meet you by the exit."

He watched as Conrad barely held his tongue and Nick threw him a look of utmost gratitude and walked slowly and unsteadily away, one hand dragging along the wall for support.

To his credit, Conrad waited until Nick had turned the corner out of sight before placing his hands on his hips. "He's been back what? A week? And he's already headed home at the beginning of a busy shift?"

"Yes, Conrad. I've got Archie on- he can handle the traffic footage Nick was working on and Greg's around here somewhere. He can pitch in."

"You have no problem with Stokes signing out like this?"

"Of course I have a problem with it, Conrad. I have a problem because he shouldn't have been back yet in the first place, and may I remind you that YOU were the one who signed off to let him come back?"

"His doctor signed off he was ready, I assumed that to be the case. He's not exactly digging ditches or lifting stuff, Gil - it's just film and DNA for Pete's sake."

"He was in the hospital for almost a month, Conrad, and … you know what? Nick's waiting. I'm taking him home. He's on my team and the work will be covered and that's all you should care about."

"Find someone else."

"Find someone else to what? We already discussed this and –"

"--To take him home, Gil. McKeen mangled his report to Atwater and now the Sheriff wants to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. We have a meeting with him in ten minutes."

"I told McKeen to write it down! I went over it in the simplest of terms. If McKeen would spend a little more time listening to others talk instead of himself –"

"--Be that as it may, Gil, meeting in ten. Baby-sit on someone else's dime."

* * *

"Nick?"

He was sitting out on the front stoop, head leaning against the rough brick of the building façade, arms wrapped around him against the slight chill in the fall night air.

As late as it was, Grave shift already in for the night, the back entrance was quiet but for the sounds of traffic and murmurs from the Strip in the distance.

"Nick?"

This time he started, lifting his head to look her way, closing his eyes in what could only be embarrassment at being found this way. "Hey, Sar. Just uh … gettin' some fresh air."

"Nice try, Nick," she said, quirking up the corner of her mouth. "Grissom sent me out here for you. Ecklie caught him on the way out and blocked him cold. Another meeting or something. He asked me to take you home. Are you…? I mean, is it…? Well, of course, it's bad but …"

"I'm okay, Sar," he said with a small smile. "Nothing bed can't fix. 'Cept maybe a guillotine to cut my head off. You have one of those around?"

"Noooo," she said, returning his smile. "But I can stop at Walgreens for you. Let's see if that doesn't do the trick first before we resort to bloodshed, okay?"

He started to nod in response, then closed his eyes and gulped.

"C'mon," she said, hand wrapping around his arm to help him up off the stairs. Her hand remained around his waist as she felt him begin to lurch drunkenly.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Balance is all off…"

"I know. It's normal with migraines." She caught the look he threw her. "I um, know someone who gets migraines. Always throws her balance off, makes her sick. Here's my car…here…"

She went to open his door and he stopped her with a hand on hers, annoyed look on his face. "I got it, Sar. I got it."

He opened the door, pulling it shut as he folded himself into the passenger seat of her Volvo and let his head fall back against the window.

She got into the drivers seat, watching Nick as his breath fogged the window, rapid and short, punctuated by heavy swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing at his throat.

"Are you … I have a …" and she bent into the back seat, coming up with a Tupperware container with a lid. "I brought my lunch in this the other day," she said as she handed him the pastel plastic bowl.

"Sar, no offense, but if you open the lid on that thing, and 'moldy baba ganoush sitting in a plastic container in your car' smell hits my nose, no bowl will be big enough, okay? Just, please… just get me home."

She took in his pained expression, flung the bowl back into the rear of the car and mumbled an apology.

Nick was quiet most of the trip out, his hand rubbing at his forehead, fingers digging deeply as if he could penetrate his skull as he skirted the healing wound at his temple.

Which was why she was startled when she heard his voice, low and soft, from the passenger seat.

"You think I made a mistake comin' back?"

She risked a glance from the road, Nick's silhouette darker against the window, streetlights they passed flickering across his face.

"Do _you_?" she asked, stuttering only slightly.

Her eyes flicked back to the road, traffic at this point still heavy. The last thing she wanted to do was rear end the car in front of her.

She darted a look over to see what reaction her question had brought but his head was turned back to lean against the crook of the headrest and the window.

"Maybe. Thought I was doin' the right thing … pitchin' in- doin' my part."

She nodded then realized he wasn't looking at her. "I don't know if I'm the right person to ask that of, Nick." She smiled to herself. It hadn't been that long ago that she'd asked herself if work was where she needed to be. "I think we all sometimes use work. Use it as an excuse. Use it as a crutch. Not that I think you were using work," she hastily added.

"Maybe. Was goin' a little nuts stuck at home." His hand rose to knead at his forehead again. "Goin' back made me feel like maybe I was gonna put all this behind me. Shoulda known better," he followed with a dark mutter.

"Nick, you may have his body, but you're not Superman." It did the trick. He chuckled, grimacing only slightly.

"Not unless Las Vegas is built on a bed of Kryptonite. Cuz, boy howdy, I feel like the man of tinfoil right now."

She snorted, punching him lightly in the arm. He rubbed at it as if it hurt but tossed her a grateful smile for laughing at his lame joke.

Throwing on the turn signal, she hung a Louie into the parking lot of Walgreens. "Thank God for 24 hour service. Hang on, Nick. I'll grab your stuff and be right back out."

She listened attentively as the kindly older pharmacist explained how the medication was administered and waited as he rang up her sale along with a couple bottles of Gatorade she figured Nick could use to keep his electrolytes up.

When she returned it was to find Nick sitting sideways in his open door, head hung down, a small puddle of fresh vomit spreading between his feet.

She grabbed up a tissue from the console and gave it to him, her other hand resting on his back where she could feel the tension in his muscles, tremors wracking him as he dry heaved a couple more times. She rubbed her hand slowly between his shoulder blades for a minute, pulling back when he finally lifted his feet gingerly and swung back into the seat, head back as he panted in short breaths, his hand wrapping around his chest in the familiar way he had weeks before.

"You set for a bit?" she asked quietly. "Not too far now to your house."

He nodded shortly in reply and slowly rebuckled his belt as she fired up the car.

True to her word, the house was just a few minutes further and she pulled the Volvo up as close as she could to his front entrance.

Shaky fingers shoved his key into the door, then pressed in the numbers on his beeping security box. The shrill sound aborted, Nick dropped his keys on the table, shed his jacket onto the couch and kept walking, straight through, into his bedroom where he laid down with a loud groan and flung his arm over his eyes.

Sara walked over and dropped the blinds on the windows to block out neighbors' porch lights and those from passing cars, then turned on a small bedside lamp, 40 watts max, before hitting the wall switch, extinguishing his bedroom overhead light.

She walked over to the bed, opening the plastic pharmacy bag to pull out two bottles of Gatorade which she put on the nightstand, and the box with the medication.

"Thanks, Sar," Nick said to the air, eyes still blocked by his arm. " 'preciate the lift and everything."

"No problem. There's sports drink on the table for you. I got grape."

His lips curved in a smile.

"Thought you'd appreciate it. And, I have your Imitrex."

He dropped his arm to squint at her, eyes squeezed almost shut against the meager glow of the lamp. "Yeah, just leave it. I'll work up to it in a bit. Just wanna lay here for a minute."

She snorted. "Nick, it's a shot. You can barely see and your hands are shaking. You've got one of these- you mess it up and you'll have nothing."

"You offerin' to stick me?"

Her lips screwed up, battling a smile. "If you're a good boy I'll give you a lollipop. But first…"

She walked down to the end of the bed and began tugging at the laces of his boots, easing each of them off to lay them down on the floor.

"Sorry Grissom didn't take you home?" she teased as Nick wiggled his newly freed feet.

"Darlin' ... you are an angel."

"You prefer this to a lecture on the pathophysiology of migraine syndrome?" She dropped her voice an octave and furrowed her brow as she adopted Grissom's well-known pedantic tone. "Did you know that the word migraine, though French, comes from the Greek _hemicrania_? It literally means 'only half the head', which is indicative of the involvement of pain most sufferers experience."

"Ohh, God, you're killin' me," he muttered with a groan.

"All right. I'll just fix you up and then I'll head out." She grabbed up the box and began unsealing the plastic wrap as Nick reached for the sleeve of his tee-shirt and began pushing it up.

"Oh, it doesn't go in your arm, Nick," she said with waggling eyebrows. Her eyes darted _southerly._

If the poor man wasn't so sick she would have laughed out loud at the expression on his face. Deer caught in headlights followed by a head shaking and his cheeks going red.

"Goes in your leg, Nick. Your thigh to be exact. So take off your pants and let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

"You know, I pictured this a little differently. Candles. Roses. Patsy Cline."

"Patsy Cline? You'd romance me with 50's country music? What about Diana Krall or Shirley Horn?"

"Rush? Triumph? Side one of Led Zeppelin IV?"

"Oh, my God, you are still _such _a frat boy at heart. Lose the pants, Nick."

"Yes 'm." He unbuckled his jeans and she tugged the legs of them down off his feet and onto the floor.

A black nylon and plastic knee brace ran from midway down his calf to partway up his thigh, the only exposed flesh the skin on top of his knee cap. "That looks uncomfortable," she said softly. "Do you want it off?"

Nick shook his head shortly, not meeting her eyes. "Takes too long and I'm hurtin' too damn much. Let's just do this."

"Sorry. Just relax. The instructions sounded pretty simple." She pushed up the leg of his plaid flannel boxers, centered the injector over his outer thigh, and pressed the button. Nick never even flinched.

"There you go," she said, picking up the comforter and pulling it over his legs. He grabbed a handful of cover and rolled over onto his side to bury his head deeply in his pillow. All she could see were two closed eyes and the top of his head.

He said something into the pillow, badly muffled.

"What, Nick?" she asked, bending closer, keeping her voice low.

He lifted his head far enough to free his mouth. "I owe you. Big time. Thanks, Sar."

"No problem, Nick. I mean it. Hope we see you at work tomorrow, but if it's still affecting you I hope you'll consider your health before the Lab."

"Yeah." His face reburied itself.

She tossed the empty box, clicked off the small lamp, and tiptoed out the door, closing it shut quietly behind her.

She was headed back out to her car when her cell phone rang.

"Sidle."

"Sara? It's Grissom. How's Nick?"

"Sick as a dog. Gave him the shot and I'm hoping he'll sleep now."

"Good. I need you back here ASAP. Archie made a real breakthrough on the bombings. We may actually have something to run with. And Jim has a plan…"

* * *

_A/N: Thanks again to everyone's kind words and for the select few who have stuck by us for this long journey._


	18. Chapter 18

"I want to thank you for coming here tonight, Ms. Christopher. I know you're a very busy woman."

"I am, Captain. But you know as well as I do that I couldn't turn down this invitation. Curiosity is a powerful force I've never been able to overcome." Chili pepper red lips spread exposing veneered, dazzling white teeth. "And _you_ have piqued my curiosity."

She shifted in her seat, recrossing long, pale legs under a form-fitting, might-as-well-be-a miniskirt, then bent to extract a small chrome recorder from her Coach satchel.

"May I?" she asked, sharp, lacquered nail-tipped finger already hovering over the record button.

"Not just yet," Jim answered, his own stubby paw reaching out to halt her actions. "We'll work out the details of our arrangement in a bit. For now…let's just talk, okay?" He gave her his best _I'm a nice guy_ smile.

"Talk? I would guess that means you'll do all the talking, as I still have no idea why you've requested my presence."

"Well, I guess that's where I start then, Ms. Christopher. As I'm sure you are more than aware, Vegas has had its share of problems lately. Outside of the norm a city of its size and nature would expect, yes?"

"If you're referring to the bombings, Captain, then, yes. Perhaps you could dispense with the euphemisms and circular talk?"

"Hey, just trying to work up to that. You're ruining my lead in," he huffed with a smile.

Her lips mashed together in an attempt to stifle an answering smile. She sat back in her seat and waved hands at him, urging him to continue.

"So. The bombings. You've covered all of them, correct? You've also covered all the press conferences and reported on the asshole who claimed CSI Stokes pushed that kid into the pub."

"A witness came forward, Captain. Attempts to get LVPD officials to offer a response were rebuffed. My job is to report the news. And that was definitely news. As have been the bombings and the press conferences."

Jim held up a placating hand. "I agree- the press plays a very important role. And not being an LVPD _official_, I have nothing to say on the higher-ups' actions or lack thereof. Just trying to set the background for us. Talking, remember?"

The redhead nodded, but crossed her arms in front of her ample chest, deepening an already generous cleavage peeping out from the low-cut silk blouse.

"We have a proposal for you, Ms. Christopher. We are offering you an exclusive. A chance to work one on one with the LVPD."

Her arms uncrossed and she leaned forward, obviously intrigued.

"And how would I do that, Captain? And more importantly, why?"

"Why?" He raised eyebrows and laughed shortly in disbelief.

"Yes, Captain. Why?" She tossed her hair back and straightened in her seat. "Channel Four's numbers- and mine, in particular, have never been better. If this guy keeps it up, we'll have November sweeps in the bag."

Jim sat back, deflated, appalled, and incredulous. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"News is a business, Captain. A very lucrative one. And if I can get enough exposure, I can write myself a ticket to any of the big three news programs. We're a CBS affiliate- if that chipmunk Katie Couric can make it, I certainly can."

"Not if you get blown up while buying your morning skinny latte and whole grain bagel, Ms. Christopher."

She twitched a smile. "Well, there is that. You know, I hate that I have to ask this… I'd like to think I know the reason why… but why me?"

"Before I tell you that, I'll need to know if you're on board for this. Confidentiality is something I'm sure you understand as a journalist," Jim smoothed in.

The reporter played with the recorder, pushing it in half circles back and forth on top of the table.

"You haven't given me much to work with, Captain. No idea of what role you expect me to play, what I can expect in exchange for my cooperation. You're lucky I loved reading Nancy Drew as a girl. Never could turn down a good mystery."

"But," she amended, raising a painted nail in the air. "I'll want assurances that this is truly an exclusive, and that, at some point, I can report on my involvement and its results. And," a second finger joining its sister, "the LVPD will back up my reporting and confirm my involvement and aid."

"Absolutely, Ms. Christopher. Your demands were expected and acceptable."

"I want one more thing," she said, sly grin spreading on her face.

"Oh? And that would be…?"

"I want an interview with CSI Stokes."

Jim was already shaking his head.

"Hear me out, Captain. We had a witness come forward alleging Stokes caused the death of Liam Balfour. No one ever refuted it and while I would agree our witness was a less than upstanding member of society, the silence of the LVPD spoke volumes. I've since had other witnesses contact me telling a different story. We haven't run it yet, because, quite frankly, the story cooled and it would have made our original reporting look bad.

The new witnesses claim that Stokes actually _saved _several of the pub's customers. I accessed some photos of him and he's easy on the eyes. Background research tells me he's by all accounts a hell of a nice guy. And he got creamed pretty badly in the explosion. Is he back to work yet?"

Jim grunted at her. "None of your business."

She grinned. "LVPD could use some good publicity. Nice cop saves soccer fans. Is he still good looking? Did the explosion damage his face at all? Actually, that could work … have him show off his wounds and scars –"

Jim stood up, chair screeching loudly on the tile floor, and swept up his paperwork. "That's enough, Ms. Christopher. I think we're done here. Thank you for your time."

He stalked over to the door, flung it open and held his arm out, clearly signaling his desire for her to leave.

"Easy, Captain Brass, easy. My demands are… negotiable. You used to head up the Crime Lab, didn't you?"

"You know I did."

"Stokes was one of your men. I'd do right by him, you know. I can spin shit into gold; I can easily have Stokes looking like the hero of the year. I'm sure he'd want the good PR for the force. For the city. 'So shines a good deed in a wicked world,' and all that."

"Actually, the original was, 'so shines a good deed in a _naughty_ world.'"

Christopher looked up to see a bearded man framed in the door Brass still held open.

"_Merchant of Venice_. Portia's words, in Act five, I believe."

"Dr. Gil Grissom." She rose and extended a hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, sir. You are a bit of an enigma. Like the Wizard of Oz - always working behind the scenes- controlling everything but rarely seen."

Jim snorted out a laugh. Grissom just quirked an eyebrow and nodded as he briefly returned her handshake.

"Ms. Christopher. Please," and Grissom held a hand out requesting she take her seat back. Jim shrugged resignedly, shutting the door behind him and taking his seat back as Grissom planted an ass cheek on the table.

"Ms. Christopher," Grissom began, "I find the machinations of bargaining tedious at best. You know very well that what we offer will be a feather in your cap. What we have in mind is unprecedented, as far as I know, at least as far as Vegas and my involvement with the police department goes. And what we will ask of you will be small, I assure you. There will be no further discussion of interviews or exposés on any singular member of this Lab. We have too much to do and too little time to do it. And too few people as well."

"Maybe Stokes would like the chance to clear his name. I could –"

"No. You can't. Leave him alone, Ms. Christopher," Grissom spat out.

Jim flipped a finger through the papers in front of him. "Hey, Gil. Maybe we could use the guy from Channel Nine. Might be too big a gig for Patsy Shindledecker of Stuckeysville, Missouri."

The redhead whirled in her seat to glare balefully at Jim.

"You aren't the only one who did some digging, Ms. Shindledecker," Jim said with a small triumphant smile. "You did some fine work at KFRM. Reporting on pork prices and corn futures. _Down on The Farm. _That was your station's motto, wasn't it?"

"That was fifteen years ago."

"Huh. Your Channel Four bio page only puts you at twenty-eight. You must have –"

"Alright. Alright. I get your point. I'll leave Stokes alone." She fluffed her lacquered nails through her flaming red hair, straightening in her chair.

"Well, I'm glad we could reach an understanding, Ms. Christopher. I gotta ask though…what's with the alliteration?"

"It worked for Hector Jimenez and Paul Prentiss over at KLAV. Who wants their news read to them by Heraclio del Monte and Ignatius Pietkowski?"

Jim and Gil exchanged headshakes.

"Ms. Christopher, in the interest of expediency I'd like to outline our request," Gil spoke up. "We have solid information that tells us that our bomber or bombers are regular viewers of your telecast during the 11 o'clock news."

"_My _telecast?" she asked incredulously, eyes widening in surprise. "Is he…are they… am I… am I in any kind of danger??" Her voice rose dramatically, no doubt partially thrilled at the prospect of being in the killer's sights.

"I don't believe so, ma'am." Yup. Her face dropped in disappointment. "Of course, if you'd feel safer we could sequester you in a safe house—" Jim began to offer.

"No! No. I mean, thank you, but I'll, um take my chances. Thank you, Captain."

"Let me know if you change your mind," Jim said with as straight a face as he could muster.

"Anyway," Gil continued, annoyed at the interruption, "we would like to provide you with a story to report on. It's our hope that our target will watch your telecast and be tempted to act upon it."

"You want me to be bait?" she asked, smile broadening on her face.

"No. No, your telecast will be the honey in the trap. But the actual set up will involve a different location and parties."

"In fact… Penny? Could you come in here?"

For the first time the reporter seemed to notice the two-way mirrored wall and Jim found it interesting to see how flustered she got.

"Callie Christopher, I'd like you to meet Penelope Lovejoy. She works for MI-5."

The British agent nodded shortly at the reporter in acknowledgment.

"MI-5? Wow! A real British spy? This… this is gonna make _great _copy."

"Remember- not a word of this to another soul until after the sting is over," Jim said sternly, reining in the reporter's exuberance.

"Absolutely. Not a word, Captain. I need this to go off well as much as you do."

"Ms. Lovejoy will be a recent British émigré here to open a clothing shop."

"I'll be carrying an exclusive line of Burberry items," Lovejoy added, taking over her part. "Such an interesting company. Started by a man who was an apprentice to a drapery maker. He invented gabardine, you know. And the line seems to be making quite the comeback here in the States. Back in the UK most think of it as being rather stuffy."

"Oh!" Christopher gasped, hand over her mouth. "I have a Burberry scarf _and _a Burberry print umbrella! The tan goes so well with everything."

"Yes. Quite. So you know then that it should be considered newsworthy enough for your station, yes?"

"Oh, definitely. I'm disappointed to know it isn't true, actually."

Jim had had enough of fashion talk and determined to sew up the remaining loose ends and get the annoying reporter out of his station.

"I'll be in touch with you to finish up the details, Ms. Christopher. And remember, this whole thing depends on you keeping this information to yourself. You'll be doing this city a great service, ma'am."

"Of course I'm happy to be of help, Captain." She took Jim's hint as he rose from the table, Grissom joining him to stand for her politely. She dropped the unused recorder into her bag, which she pulled on over her shoulder to shake each man's hand firmly.

After she left the three of them collapsed into their seats.

"That was like trying to wrestle an octopus with one hand tied behind my back," Jim said, wiping a hand over his brow. "Reminds me why I hate the press."

"Well, you two worked her magnificently," Lovejoy said. "Brilliant really."

"We still have a lot of details to work out," Grissom muttered soberly. "I have court in the morning, Jim. Can you handle the logistics we discussed?"

"That the Garbett retrial?"

"Yeah. My testimony should be brief, I hope. He was convicted on the evidence the first time around. He's getting a second bite at the apple because his attorney convinced a judge the original jury's instructions were faulty."

"Well, when you're done you can join me at the site we picked out. I'll have guys sitting on it from the second our friend, Ms. Christopher, gives her report, and round the clock thereafter. It's taking an awful lot of manpower we don't have. I hope this asshole takes the bait."

* * *

Bobby Dawson peered through the microscope at the bullet's striations, noting the left sided twist; similar to the Colt he was comparing it against. The grooves were worn and the slug was in bad shape, pulled after it went through 'two' walls.

"You said this came from the living room?"

Nick peered up from his work bench. "Yeah. Sara's report said it went through the sheetrock of a hallway and impacted in the adjoining room. Why, is it too mangled?"

Bobby lips twisted, "There're only a few striae to work with, and what's there is pretty weak. Not sure if there're enough markings to get a warrant for the suspect."

"You matched it to a Colt, right?"

He laughed. "Impact made a mess of things, but it's definitely a Colt, though I couldn't say for sure what model." Bobby shook his head. "Too many different types out there... I should be able to match it to the gun, _if _they find one."

"Guy's in the wind; there's a BOLO out on his car."

He looked over as Nick worked on the shell casings belonging to a jacked up Mac-10. A guy had been found dead in a parking lot from a wound to his femoral artery. But then Bobby figgered anyone who was stupid enough to trick the already deadly weapon into an automatic deserved to shoot themselves in the leg. The basement was riddled with casings from multiple trial runs. Of course, not all the casings belonged to the jerry-rigged rifle, and all the shells needed to be accounted for just in case the artillery they came from were used in other crimes.

"You makin' progress over there?"

Nick sent him a _look._ "I have like, hundreds of little metal pieces to tag and scope... what do ya think, Boss?"

"Welcome to my world," he chuckled, very familiar with the CSI's monotonous task.

Even though Nick had donned the blue lab coat and worked diligently, without complaint in the various sections of the Lab for almost two weeks now, Bobby didn't want to unload all the shit work on the criminalist, but there was only so much Nick was allowed to do in the ballistics lab that didn't require specialty training. Especially if there would eventually be testimony in court.

And it was nice, having some company and fresh conversation. Bobby began entering the findings from his current case into his computer, feeling a lack of accomplishment based on his skimpy report. "So, are you gonna grab the Glock 23C s they're offerin' to switch out?"

"Supposed to reduce recoil, right?"

"Yeah, features a ported barrel and slide which releases the gasses faster." He swiveled over to see Nick becoming increasingly annoyed at his identification process. The poor guy would be there all night trying to catalog all those casings.

"Know it's good for faster follow-up shots, but I don't think I'll be enterin' a war zone anytime , man."

"Need to be prepared, Nick. Never know when a shoot-out might happen and you _are _in the middle of a crazy firefight." Bobby wasn't gung ho, or a poster child for the NRA, but life had taught him never to underestimate the dangers of the job or even possible in normal situations.

"Heck, the Glock 23 is just a modified 19. Glad they tinkered with it." Nick pushed away from the desk with a perplexed look.

Bobby's fingers tapped a symphony on the keyboard, shaking his head and looking at his co-worker out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, the 19 is two pounds lighter-- just doesn't feel heavy enough."

He finished with his latest paperwork and watched as Nick stared blankly, eyes blinking rapidly. Knowing that it would help the criminalist if he test-fired the Mac 10, he went over to his workbench and grabbed a set of protective headgear and his goggles.

"I'll see if I can shed some light on your mystery," he said brightly but Nick didn't look up, his brow furrowed, eyes squinting intensely.

Bobby shook his head at the man's intense concentration and lifted the butt of the rifle, causing the weapon to erupt in a hail of gunfire. His hands squeezed the end harder reflexively, the kick back knocking the muzzle up, bullets shattering the tempered glass lab windows.

His heart raced, but common sense overpowered his instincts. He miraculously took control of the weapon, discharging the magazine so it had no more ammo to expel. Swallowing harshly, he scanned the room to make sure no one had been injured.

To his amazement Nick had been sitting and rose from his chair just as he glanced in his direction, a reflection of shock and terror in his eyes...it was something beyond fear, Nick's jaw hanging open as if too spooked to say anything. Before Bobby had time to find his own voice, Ecklie and Grissom stormed in with a gaggle of worried onlookers flocking just outside the door.

"What the hell just happened here?" the director demanded.

"You okay, Bobby?" Grissom inquired, ignoring the other man.

"The Mac-10 accidentally went off; I'm not sure how it happened. Need to be more careful."

Ecklie scowled, assessing the damage. "Be sure to file a report," he grumbled. He tossed the ballistics tech a decidedly dirty look then turned and left the lab.

Grissom remained momentarily. "Accidents happen, Bobby. Wouldn't be a science lab if they didn't. Just glad you two are all right."

"Thank you. I- I should clean up."

Grissom raised an eyebrow at Nick and said something about a meeting as he wandered away.

"Sorry, man."

It was Bobby's turn to look perplexed. "Nuthin' to be apologetic about. I'm the one who just shot up ballistics and don't talk to me about _that_ irony."

Nick's expression still bothered the tech the rest of the night, but Bobby didn't mention it, still too embarrassed he could have made such a deadly mistake.

* * *

Guitars crunched out heavy riffs overpowering a screechy vocal. It was adrenaline-fueled rock, pedal to the metal, head banging, hair flying aggression. How did Greg stand this?

His head hurt, temples throbbing with every drum beat. God, it was like nails raking the chalkboard; he could _feel_ the blood vessels in his head pulsing, ready to burst at any moment.

He switched channels and the bass line of a rap song blew through his speakers instead. The voice the same as so many countless others, the lyrics meaningless... girls, drugs, sex, bling. The constant, rapid-fire words had his head spinning.

Nick let it linger, let it burn and dig a hole right behind his eyes as his thumb slid the switch. His vision bled red, then fuzzy grey around the edges behind his closed eyelids. The surface of his dining room table didn't provide relief, the wood no longer holding any cold comfort. Just hard support for his forehead.

Tired of testosterone he moved the dial further. His ears filled with a mellow soulful vibe, a chorus of warm voices, the foot tapping and hand clapping of a hallelujah flock. He thought of Violet and his lips curved slightly.

It didn't hurt quite so much, but it still wasn't right so his finger held the button some more, past his normal twang, beyond the lone reggae station. It landed on a composition of quiet strings and harp. The wind instruments washed over him, wave after wave.

He didn't stir, arm laid flat in front of him, eyes still squeezed closed to allow in--- only sound.

The orchestra softened until only the tiniest solo violin pierced the silence. He held on to the pinpricks of the instrument and then finally turned off the stereo.

Then he waited, head still bowed, honing onto a single sense. Eyes closed taking audible inventory of his home. His breathing was heavy and slow. The refrigerator hummed in the background and he heard the distant sound of a car going past outside on the street. Even his home vibrated with life; the fish tank, the drippy faucet.

He sat up, rubbing at his tired eyes and looked around.

It was a fluke.

He took a deep, long breath with little more than the slightest of twinges as he expanded his ribcage. His hand went down to massage his knee, still a site of sore annoyance. A lightweight brace supported him most of the time if he didn't overdo things. Which wasn't too hard when all he did was sit on his ass all day.

Aches and pains. Just reminders. Odd that with all the trauma to his knee and chest, it was the stupid knock to his skull that was causing him the most problems.

He glared at the radio, Bose with state of the art speakers. He was fine... everything was getting better. This too would pass.

Headaches.

They drained the life out of him and stuck around however long they felt. His migraine from the week before had thankfully lessened the following day but aftershocks continued in its wake. The burden was tiresome, but tonight... tonight was different.

He never heard Bobby.

Never knew about the danger.

And never realized that one of his _moments_ could be anything more than just a nuisance. What if he'd been on the job and someone warned him about a totally different kind of shooter?

He thumbed the cap off a nearly empty aspirin bottle and swallowed three tablets with a swig of Coke. The soda bubbled on his tongue, but it tasted flat and heavy.

He sighed and paced in a single area of carpet. But he hated this habit and went back and sat at his table, ignoring the radio and flipping open his lap top. He pulled up his bookmarked link for e-Medicine and began reading the article.

Again.

He had it practically memorized but he went over it one more time. Another go around to see if he'd missed something earlier or hadn't followed up on another avenue. He scrolled down, head still pounding from earlier that night.

_Post Concussion Syndrome: _

Physical symptoms can include:

-headache  
-sensitivity to noise or light  
-dizziness  
-fatigue or sleepiness  
-inability to sleep  
-nausea and/or vomiting  
-double or blurred vision  
-loss of taste and/or smell  
-some ringing in the ears

He frowned and rubbed at the temple that had taken the impact for a brief moment. He moved the mouse to the lines that had given him reason to just deal with it until things got better.

_Post-concussion syndrome is usually not treated, except with pain relievers for headaches and medicine to relieve depression, nausea, or dizziness. Patients are aided in gradually returning to work and other pre-injury activities as symptoms permit. Since stress exacerbates post concussion symptoms, and vice versa, an important part of treatment is letting the patient know that symptoms are normal and helping the patient deal with impairments. Most symptoms will go away in a few days, weeks, or as long as a few months after trauma._

He slouched in his chair. He just needed to wait it out. The ringing would stop and the issues with his hearing would go away too, the dizzy spells banished with it.

For a brief moment he considered calling his doctor, but didn't want to be put through another endless battery of tests just to be told he had been warned about this kind of thing at the time of his discharge. Mentioning it to anyone from the team was out of the question; one word and they'd handcuff him to an examination table. It was bad enough, the looks he got, the worry that emanated off his friends in waves.

He stared at the screen, the investigator in him screaming but muffled out by a louder, more constant voice.

It'll just go away.


	19. Chapter 19

--------

Magic was an illusion, using the old con of diverting the eye so the mind didn't pick up the trickster's slight of hand. But there was nothing phony about the fingerprint. The evidence didn't lie, but it was sometimes difficult to discern the tale it told.

His team was waiting on his instructions and sitting in Ecklie's office was testing Gil's patience. He had paid attention to most of what Conrad had ranted about after he'd carefully attempted explaining the presence of a fingerprint that wasn't supposed to be there. The discovery on the witness stand had admittedly thrown him but his brain was already in overdrive, combing through the possibilities.

"Since your original testimony differs from the actual physical evidence, I thought I'd inform you I've opened a supervisory inquiry."

The shoe that had been suspended for ages now finally dropped.

"Well, that's good, Conrad. You know, I can't recall a Lab Director as expeditious as you before."

When an opportunity presented itself, Conrad showed his true colors. Gil rose from his seat, feeling the AD's eyes studying him, and not particularly caring. "I've got work to do."

He exited; the case and its ramifications took precedence- politics could wait.

* * *

Nick had never juggled, had never much cared for the circus, but sometimes the Lab did a great imitation of a three ring one when a hot case hit the press and the fan at once. One night the place was going bananas over some hot news reporter and the next the placed lurched off balance, sent into a tail spin by the mysteriously appearing print and now some internal investigation.

They were like the guys from Miami Vice setting up sting operations, and then twenty-four hours later it was the Spanish Inquisition breathing down their necks. Trying to concentrate on the bomber sting and the Garbett case at the same time had him trying to keep his eyes on all the balls in the air, knowing if a single one dropped, the others would come crashing down as well.

"The print on the matchbook and the wrench are an identical match."

Catherine pushed her glasses up from the end of her nose and peered at his results. "Looks like someone other than the suspect touched them both."

"There you are."

They heard the British accent as Lovejoy made a beeline for them. The MI-5 agent had become a familiar figure at their many meetings, chiming in on conversations. It was oddly amazing how well she blended into their group with her wit, endless charm, and sharp mind.

Nick smiled despite Catherine's briefly annoyed look.

"I have my preliminary report of possible suspects derived from the hospital and clinic research."

A fat folder was slapped down on the desk, and Nick eyed its thickness, eyebrow arching. "How long is that?"

"We narrowed it down to a couple dozen or so lads with British or Irish family histories. Several of them arrived within the last ten years- they're naturalized American citizens now."

Nick rifled through the notes, Catherine sneaking a look over his shoulder. "Nick's not on this case."

She didn't see his expression, but Ms. Lovejoy did. "Yes, you chaps seem to be up to your elbows in formalities... know all about them. I'm here to share information, and so I am," she said eying Nick. "Just trying to keep everyone up to speed."

"This gives us some extra leverage if our guy takes the bait. If his name matches anything here, it'll give us a few more ways to tighten the screws to him." Nick nodded flipping the manila folder closed. "Thanks, Penny."

Catherine seemed caught off guard by the casual use of Lovejoy's name. Nick smiled on the inside; he knew how to play the court; not every one gave him the credit, but it served in his favor.

"Just trying to justify my expenses here." She winked and left in the same swift way she'd ducked in.

Nick slid the intel under his arm. "Garbett's ex-wife's, three of the waiters' and both cooks' prints were in I-AFIS because of work cards, but none was a match to the mystery print."

His new boss blinked and visibly switched gears, trying to keep up with his abrupt change back to their most current fire.

"And what about the other four?" she asked, trying to veer back on to the road he'd taken.

"I ran their socials to get their addresses. I'll grab a uniform, go bang on some doors."

"Nick-"

"Went to a couple scenes this week, just to do the prelim sketch. All I'm talking about is getting new sets of prints, nothing strenuous."

She looked doubtful but he just smiled at her. "Who are you going to send to do it? Even Greg's busy," he joked, trying to make her see that it wasn't that big a deal. They were stretched too thin and it was an all hands on deck type of case.

"I'll catch up with you later, Cath," he said with a nod and a grin, out the door before she could really object.

* * *

It was hotter than Hades outside, and the first time in over two months that he'd worked up a sweat that didn't involve a PT telling him just one more time. Hitting the pavement and going door to door was such a sweet, exhilaratingly experience, too long since he'd done any down and dirty work. Driving all over town had actually been fun-he'd listened to the radio, gotten to move around and shake all the cobwebs loose.

Door number one he practiced his Texan charm, earning a swift acceptance of his request.

Door number two, he'd sworn the woman had offered him everything under the sun to keep him there. Water. Tea. Lunch had been a bit of overkill. Some women have a thing for a man in uniform, his LVPD escort, Conyers, had hinted... the whole combination of shades, vest, and gun.

He didn't know all about that, but then the patrolman pointed out Nick's reflection in a window. He had cut his hair again recently, sporting an almost militaristic style and had to admit he was broadcasting the cop vibe very loudly.

The third employee lived in a multilevel apartment complex, that had even his young and in shape escort huffing by the second set of stairs. The beat cop had all the time in the world by the time they reached the fourth floor. Nick had to stop a couple times to rest an ache that had roared back to life; the lightweight brace under his pants was getting quite the workout.

That particular suspect had been woken up and was grumpy at the prospect of being fingerprinted. Nick had to use every angle of the 'cop' routine. Sunglasses on, chin jutting out, and he used his low authoritative voice.

After finally wrangling a set of prints of the guy he tossed man a thank you nod and the uni and he headed out. On one of the last steps on the way out his knee gave out just enough to twist awkwardly. He lurched forward, grabbing the railing with both hands, and then gingerly placed his weight back on it. It protested mightily.

Fuck.

Thank God his last print candidate lived in a single flat, but the trip from his car to the driveway was agony. His jaw remained rigid, effectively shutting down any small talk with his uni escort, who was at least kind enough not to mention his now obvious limp.

Then he'd arrived back at the Lab, only to go back out with Jim to track down the son of their suspect. No time for aspirin or an ice pack, just riding shotgun as the captain drove them to their scene.

"Is it going to rain tomorrow?"

He looked over at the detective questioningly. "Huh?"

Jim smiled, took his eyes off the road for a moment. "Your barometer."

Nick looked down to what he nodded at. His hand had been kneading at his thigh above the brace and he hadn't even realized it.

"The way it feels now, I'm thinking hurricane."

"When I was in 'Nam, a buddy of mine was shot. Bullet got him in the shoulder. He was in the MASH for weeks, something about complications, but the thing that nagged him the most was the wrist he busted wrecking his jeep afterwards. Not the holes or anything... just this nagging hurt for months after everything else had healed up."

Nick wasn't surprised about very much anymore, but between the story and the oddness of it, he was baffled as to how to respond. "The little things got to him?"

Jim nodded. "I swear he was better than any weatherman; got to the point we'd count on him for forecasts over Army intel," he chuckled.

Nick could picture Jim Brass hunkered down in some jungle, but his image was that of a man way too young to be there. "Just buggin' me a little- nuthin' too bad."

"You're getting old," the Captain cracked.

They arrived at Keith Garbett's house, their initial warm greeting ending in a door being slammed in their faces.

"I thought that went well," Jim snarked.

Nick's gut told him this was their guy- the matchbook from the same club and he was an ex- veterinarian explaining the dog hairs found. The bad guys always thought they were so smart, but it only stoked his ire. He limped heavily now, unable to cover it up anymore, but he was too busy being pissed. As he hobbled over towards the curb he looked over at the Captain.

"There's more than one way to get his prints. Trash on the curb—public property, right?"

"You don't need a warrant," Jim shrugged.

Nick hauled out the large black plastic garbage bags, his upper body working just fine. Trying to walk off balance with a joint as stiff and sore as his was another thing.

Jim walked beside him quietly, popping open the trunk where Nick stored their evidence. Once both men were back inside the car, the Captain drove in silence until pulling into a corner gas station.

"Be right back."

Nick banged his head against the seat, ticked at himself for pushing so hard. He wasn't going home early, there'd be no skipping a shift when things were getting way hot and he finally felt like he was making some contributions to a case.

His thoughts were interrupted when Jim returned and handed him a plastic bag filled with ice. "Bought two cups worth. Use it on that knee of yours."

Nick accepted it with thanks, even more grateful that it was the last he heard of it all the way back to the lab. The older man turned to him.

"You know a solider always wants to get back on the battlefield to help out his buddies. Your unit is your family and you do anything for them. You win the war together and lose it together. But the war is always there... it's never going away." Jim looked at him. "You understand?'

Nick nodded. The bag of ice was now mostly melted, dripping through his hands.

"Just leave the mess on the floorboard."

Nick got out of the car, grateful for wearing black slacks that didn't show the wet, and very thankful for wise friends like Jim Brass.

* * *

While Ecklie went over his handling of the Garbett case, Gil's thoughts were computing the odds and surmising the possible outcomes of the sting operation. The theory behind it was sound, but the variables were not to his liking.

He listened in one ear as Conrad tried to pick apart the team's efforts instead of concentrating on the positive outcome of their findings and success in arresting the right suspect this time around.

Evidence didn't lie but you did have to be careful how you interpreted the findings. The prerequisites were problem solving, logic, and often your gut. A microscope could show you anything, but it took the mind behind the eye to create a theory and prove it.

His instincts were right about Sofia: her findings were unbiased, straight forward and NOT the damning response the AD had been hoping for.

"Are you saying that, his handling of the discovery of new evidence while on the stand is within our protocols?"

Grissom could hear the gears in the man's head grinding off their tracks.

"As it applies to this case... yes." Sofia answered cautiously.

That didn't seem to deter the man as he focused his attention back on the entomologist. "In the process of investigating this case, your ability to supervise has come into question."

Grissom raised an eyebrow... so this was the aim all along. He had to stop underestimating the lengths to which Conrad would go for his petty gains.

"Again, we have no evidence that Grissom violated any protocols or proce…"

"Thank you for your input," Ecklie spat, effectively cutting off Sofia.

"Okay, Conrad, what do you got? Let's hear it," Grissom asked calmly, tired of these games.

"Well, taken individually, there's nothing specific that warrants disciplinary action. However, my investigation has led me to question the effectiveness of your team and your ability to lead it. I'm breaking you guys up."

"Excuse me?" He couldn't believe his ears.

"I've already spoken with the Director. Staff assignments are under my purview. Effective immediately, Catherine Willows will be promoted to Swing Shift Supervisor..."

It didn't matter to him one bit. The lives he was shattering, how his callous, vindictive machinations were screwing up more than one career. For a single vendetta he'd really stoop this low? Ensnaring so many other innocents in pursuit of his victory?

He felt so unbelievingly fucked that he couldn't even express his outrage... for once, Gil Grissom was reduced to a hollow and meek, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you fail as a supervisor, Gil. Your team has been covering for you all these years. I'm doing what's best for this lab."

"You can't do this."

Ecklie allowed a wan grin. "I can and I am."

Grissom felt pinpricks down his spine and ice in his veins. He wasn't a man to allow emotion to cloud his judgment but he did feel... and when a volley of such magnitude was launched at him-at his people?

Sofia was protesting her demotion but Grissom was lost in his building fury.

"You've never cared about the lab! The lab is more than some walls and equipment. It's the people that make up this place, Conrad. Results don't appear because you have the brightest monkeys knowing which knobs to turn and which fibers to match like some color-schemed card game. A team is about chemistry as much as it is efficiency and numbers."

Ecklie slapped his folder closed as he leaned forward to match Grissom's posture. "You don't know how to manage your people. It's not just a lack of paperwork or follow-up, it's about supervision. You've got half your CSIs running scenes without direction or guidance. The other half has mounting personal problems that affect their behavior on cases."

"That's not the issue," he snapped back.

Ecklie threw open a drawer, pulling free and slamming down a set thick of folders. "You have a gambling addict who may or may not be in therapy, because how would you know?"

Flip.

"Sidle has a drinking problem but you communicate with her after each of her sessions as well, don't you? That's why there's a huge gap in her personnel file where your signature and report should be."

"Don't drag good people through the mud, trying to punish me by trampling on them. That's behavior reserved for schoolyard bullies," Grissom hissed, hands gripping the edge of the table. "No one's perfect and my guys know how to keep their personal lives and work separate."

Ecklie raised an eyebrow in challenge, hand going for another report to prove him wrong.

Grissom slammed his hand on the desk in warning. The AD backed off, but changed tactics.

"You care about your team so much that you let them run themselves ragged until a DNA tech almost blew up the lab- again- and ballistics suffered a near shooting."

"My people have bent over backwards to solve their growing workload and this mad bomber while you pinch pennies until they scream," Grissom growled, every tendon in his body tense as bow strings.

"Oh, yes, the bomber. How long have you made this lab look bad? Months went by while the media raked us over the coals and the Sheriff ripped me a new one. It took a goddamn AV tech to break the case!"

It dawned on him about the timing, caught up in Conrad's Shakespearian play for revenge. "We're about to set up a major sting and you want to break us up now? We're this close," he said, thumb and index mere millimeters apart. "Are you nuts?"

"The sting will go forward. You get to keep Sidle and Sanders if he passes his proficiency test." He looked at the almost forgotten other criminalist who was observing the war in silence. "Sofia will be on your team as well- you two suit each other."

Grissom stood, only his last bit of control keeping him in place, still reeling from the implosion of his team.

Ecklie settled back in his seat, smug expression on his face as he savored the upper hand.

"Despite Brown's troubled early years, I'll let Catherine oversee him on Swing. She might be able to make something promotion-worthy under a more watchful eye."

"And Nick?" Grissom glared at him.

Ecklie worked his jaw back and forth. "I think he'd flourish more under Catherine."

"Flourish? Just a few weeks ago you sat contentedly on that throne of yours while he was thrown to the wolves."

Grissom took a good look at all the folders- his people were ammunition in a private little war. He saw Nick's on the top and, glaring up at Ecklie, he gave the pile a shove, spilling them on the floor.

"That's what you think they are! Just paper puppets."

Conrad rose to his feet, grinning icily. "Are you trying to get yourself suspended on top of everything?"

"With all your saber rattling and number crunching, did you take a good long look at your own report concerning The George?"

He rounded the corner of the desk, taking a small amount of pleasure at how the AD stepped back. "It would seem that your report lacks a few findings. Like, for instance, the fact that your budget cuts had one of my CSIs covering a double homicide alone.

So while you were able to cut labor costs by stretching us too thin, my guy didn't have enough people with him to clear a scene. The lack of manpower not only resulted in Nick's injuries, but the loss of four civilians and another cop. And you helped divert attention for the deaths from yourself onto the man responsible for saving a lot of people's lives."

Ecklie didn't have anywhere to go, his back to the wall and Grissom ever so calmly advancing step by step. "Your style has enlightened more than you realize, Conrad. You've shown your ability to protect your own ass, hiding a lack of leadership behind press conferences and sound bites.

Do what you do best, Conrad. Sit behind a desk and make bad choices that hurt other people and damn the consequences."

His speech done, Grissom stood stonily waiting for a response but Ecklie just adjusted his tie and sank back down into his seat. Grissom turned on his heel and nodded at Sofia who sat stunned by his uncharacteristic outburst.

"You were never good with politics, Gil," Ecklie muttered darkly from his desk. "If you'd ever expressed a fraction of that kind of devotion to your team members in person, then maybe you wouldn't be losing them. Sometimes it's a mundane aspect of the job, like communication, that's the real hallmark of a leader."

Grissom's hand hesitated on the door and he left the lair in search of his people to break the news.

* * *

"Hey, I uh, heard Sara and Greg had a fun night."

"Yeah. They thought they were gonna be all bad, take down the gun dealers… only thing they caught were some pissed off ATF guys."

"Between them and all the Homeland Security people here, Washington must be looking pretty empty these days," Nick muttered into his coffee.

Gil sipped quietly at his own coffee as he listened to the two men banter. Over ten years he'd worked with them and as many things that had changed, so many things hadn't.

Warrick had been a local boy made good. Any initial petty thoughts by people he'd jetted by that it was some kind of Affirmative Action nod that had gotten him there were quickly dispelled when they saw the natural talent and drive the kid had. Couple that with the unflagging stamina of the college athlete and the ability the young gambler had to assess and weigh the odds of just about every scenario had him bounding through the CSI levels two steps at a time.

It would have been easy to hate him; drop dead good looks, the languorous, comfortable way he wore his tall lanky body. He had a sharp tongue but he knew how to tame it when he turned his jibes on his friends. And he had charm oozing from every inch.

Were it not for a short fuse and his boss' same unwillingness to play politics, Warrick could probably be the one sitting in Ecklie's chair in ten years. If he desired it. Which it seemed to Gil he didn't.

His original plans to groom Warrick as his successor had been something he'd re-assessed in recent months. He arranged for a trial run, Warrick running things while Grissom went out of town. Upon his return he'd had a sit down to discuss how things had gone in his absence. The bloom was decidedly off the rose. Warrick had gotten a real taste of what all the supervisory position entailed. And he hadn't been overly thrilled.

So when the time came to submit names for Lead CSI, a position suggested by the higher ups designed to place appropriate candidates on the management track, Grissom had chosen Nick.

Nick had arrived in Vegas around the same time as Warrick had started and what began as a competitive rivalry soon grew to a close friendship. They made excellent partners, Nick's affability and gentleness smoothing over Warrick's rough, sharp edges, while Warrick's boldness helped draw the initially more timid Texan out of his shell, allowing him to spread his wings and gain more confidence.

And Nick had blossomed. The young man constantly seeking the approval of his boss, questioning his own more often than not correct assessments, doubting his own abilities…that man was gone. He had become something of a rarity; a strong, self-assured leader at the top of his game who still managed to know the names of the lady who emptied the trashcans and every uniform he'd ever worked with and was able to command respect and wasn't above using his physicality when necessary, yet was the go to guy when a gentle touch was needed with a youthful victim or suspect.

The position had been pulled as capriciously as it had been offered, another sign that the powers that be had no idea what in hell they were doing.

"Grissom?"

Warrick's voice drew him out of his reverie. "Sorry. Just …"

"Yeah, this whole thing has got all of us knocked off balance. I still can't quite wrap my head around it."

"Well, our shifts overlap, and of course, you really couldn't ask for a better supervisor than Catherine," Gil said with a smile. "You'll probably actually have a better time of things. I'm sure she's more fun," he said with a cock of his head.

Warrick muttered one of his typical "picture that's" and tossed a look at his partner.

Nick's spoon stirred in slow circles in his nearly empty coffee cup.

"Hey, bro. You're kinda quiet. You feelin' okay?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. Just more change is all. Was kinda looking forward to things settlin' down and bein' normal again, but I guess it's not meant to be.

And I can't help but feel like I shoulda known this was comin'. I mean, Ecklie, giving me a compliment? Shoulda sent up red flags but I just kinda … fluffed it off, ya know?"

"Yeah, Grissom. He came to all of us. Nick's right. Seems like we should seen this coming."

"There's nothing any of you could have done to stop what Conrad has obviously been planning for some time, guys. And if it's anyone's fault, it's mine. My report cards in elementary school always said I didn't play well with others. I could have kowtowed to Conrad…"

"But then you wouldn't be Grissom," Nick said with a game smile.

A waitress dropped off the check and Nick's hand scooped it up abruptly.

"I got this. This is the kinda dough I'm pulling in, now I'm back on the clock full time."

He slid out of the booth, and headed for the cash register, a heavy limp back in his step that he very obviously tried to smooth out.

Gil waited a few seconds, then leaned a bit closer over the table. "You've spent more time with him since he's been back. How is he doing? Really doing?"

Warrick sighed and slumped into the booth seat. "He was doin' okay. Settling in. Pretty much back on his game, ya know? It was his instinct that had him targeting Garbett, and it was right. He was right. Saved an innocent man from goin' back to jail. But now, another rug pulled out from under him? I think that, knowing my boy like I do, he's probably already figured out some half-assed reason why the shift split was his fault."

He nodded at this partner who was still gimping his way over to the cash register, stopping and wobbling awkwardly as he was cut off by a family of tourists complete with a snot-nosed toddler in a stroller.

" 'Course, it didn't help he decided he was ready to walk half the city gettin' those damn fingerprints." He shook his head. "Man, his limp hasn't been that bad in weeks."

Gil followed Warrick's look, his brow wrinkling as he saw Nick leaning heavily against the counter, waiting for their waitress to show at the register.

He turned back to look at his long-time friend and co-worker. Warrick gave him a small half smile.

"Always knew there'd be a time we weren't working together. Just never pictured it happenin' so soon. Sure as heck never thought it'd be under these circumstances."

He sighed long and loudly. "Man, it seems like we were just pickin' up the pieces- gettin' the whole team back together again. And now this. Ecklie really has some shit ass timin' you know that ?"

Gil nodded slowly. "I'm afraid that Conrad's timing is actually quite good. This is something that he's obviously been planning for some time, and with the bombings and the …other concerns …I missed it. The clues were there the whole time."

The older man smiled sadly. "So much for my vaunted skills of observation. Jim warned me this was going to happen."

Warrick snorted out a laugh. "Jim always could smell bullshit from a mile away."

"There's a reason he ran the lab all those years," Gil agreed. "Things change; first Jim left. I never pictured myself as a supervisor. I never wanted much beyond a free hand to do the best job I could."

He arched an eyebrow. "And then Conrad got promoted."

"Yeah. The Peter Principle in action."

"Actually, Conrad is a bit of an anomaly. He was incompetent in his previous position as a CSI, but I believe he's risen, finally, to his comfort level. Love him or hate him, the man is a consummate politician and bureaucrat."

"Yeah, I think I'm firmly in the latter camp," Warrick muttered with a humph. "You know –"

His cell phone chimed to life and he tosses Gil an apologetic look.

"Brown. Yeah, just finishing up. New boss," he mouthed. "Uh huh. Yeah, Nick's…" He craned his head around, scanning the diner. "Nick's with me. I'll let him know. Oh, and, congrats, Cath. You really did deserve it. … Okay. Yeah. See you later for shift."

He closed up the cell phone. "Catherine," he explained unnecessarily.

"You'll work well together. You always have and this shouldn't change things," Gil reassured him. And he meant it. The two had a way of balancing out their matching coolness and fiery tempers, each knowing when the other one needed to be brought down a few degrees.

Warrick just shrugged. "We'll see, I guess. Speaking of change, swing starts at four in the afternoon. Gonna hafta revamp my whole schedule now."

"Heracleitus once said, 'It is in changing that we find purpose.'"

"Well, thanks to you, this job, I already know my purpose." He crumpled his dirty napkin and tossed it on the table carelessly. "So, I guess I'll see you for the thing tonight?"

Gil nodded. "Catherine and I agreed to keep the schedules the same until afterwards. Either it will work and we'll have him, or it won't and we'll need to explore different avenues."

"A'ight." The tall man extricated himself from the diner booth seat, unfolding his long lanky frame. "I need to go track down my partner. Can't have gotten too far on that knee."

-----------------------

The impromptu gathering had been odd but strangely not at the same time. Nick couldn't remember the last time it had just been the three of them getting together for anything beyond a shift meeting, conversation limited to discussing DNA results and assignments for the night.

At first he'd felt a bit awkward. The last one on one he'd had with his boss had taken place in the men's room; not exactly the most common of places to hold a conversation. But then, it hadn't been the most common of circumstances.

Gil Grissom had hunted him down through the entirety of the Lab, had offered help, and hadn't been callous or condescending. The boss'd taken heat from Ecklie in order to get him home and, more importantly, not have to deal with the AD himself. And that was the best medicine he'd received that night.

So he'd settled into small talk and melancholy remembrances and the kind of bitching that co-workers have done through the centuries. And it had been nice. Sad, and bittersweet, but that's the way it was sometimes in dysfunctional families.

Then he'd felt _it_ beginning. The growing too damn familiar heaviness on one side of his head, the cotton that began to fill his head, and the white noise hiss blotting out all other sound.

He'd quickly excused himself from the table, using paying the bill as an excuse, and thought to make a quick exit from the table, but his damn fucking knee was reminding him of his stupid, impulsive decision to have his first day back in the field be a door to door. He must have walked five miles earlier, up stairs, over broken concrete and weed-punctured cement.

Instead of a casual trip to the counter it had turned into a limping, practically dragging his leg, slog to the front of the diner, around the hazards of tourists and wait staff laden down with trays of caffeine and the grease du jour.

The waitress finally made it over to the register and he shoved two twenties at her for their $17 dollar meal. He saw her hands reaching out with the extra twenty but he just waved at her and forced a smile on his face as she grinned and mouthed what he assumed were thanks.

The door was five feet away and it may as well have been fifty. Bits of broken conversation and the sounds of clanking dishes and shouted kitchen orders assaulted his ears as he shoved his way through the throng waiting in what passed for the lobby of the tiny restaurant.

His hands struck the glass doors and he pushed through them, practically stumbling as all the resistance he'd been fighting against was suddenly gone.

It was only then that he realized he had nowhere to go; his partner had driven. He was stuck. And no amount of shaking his head or tugging at his ear would clear the hum that filled his skull. So his choice was hang out in the parking lot or go back to try and fake his way through more conversation. Because there was no way he'd reveal what was really going on to the two men inside.

Grissom had already had to cover for him with Ecklie, and his ignominious departure the week before still embarrassed him. To know that his boss had seen him so pathetic… sitting on the freaking bathroom floor, for Cripe's sake. Of course, he'd puked only a minute before being found and couldn't have made it back to the break room if his life had depended on it, but still…

And his partner already watched him like a hawk, always studying him, even if only out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for Nick to fall at any minute. He probably still had that broken down man he saw in the hospital pasted over the reality that Nick was back at work and doin' fine, thank you very much. Except, of course, for it.

He'd dug even deeper into his computer research, and each and every site mentioned most of his symptoms as being typical- hell, being expected- after serious head trauma. Dizziness, his lack of taste, his migraine headaches. And every fucking one of the sites said it would go away. Given time, most symptoms resolved themselves. And his doc kept telling him the same thing.

So why did it seem to be getting worse?

And where to go from here?

The dizziness suddenly worsened and he grabbed the stucco front of the building, screwing his eyes shut as the parking lot suddenly began to spin in earnest.

He gasped in a breath against a wave of nausea, his fingers digging into the rough plaster, holding on for dear life. He felt a hand on his arm and opened his eyes to see a man, a stranger, staring at him with concern, his lips moving but nothing broke through the static.

The man's brow furrowed in anger when Nick pulled away, his mouth now forming words that anyone could read as foul and suggesting Nick perform a biologically impossible feat with himself.

He closed his eyes back down tightly as the man brushed past him and into the diner. And as the doors swung open, the noise from within the restaurant rushed back to Nick's ears, muting again as the doors closed behind his would be helper.

The dizziness began to fade and he breathed in short pants, trying to bring his hammering heart down to a slower rate.

Then the doors swung open again and Nick turned to see his partner exiting, that look of concern back on his face.

"Hey, bro. Whatcha doin' out here?"

"Guy left his credit card behind. I tried to chase him down, but…" He waved a hand at his knee.

"Which guy? I'll try an catch him—"

"No. No, he already left. I'm sure he'll figure it out."

"Oh. Okay. You ready to head home, bro? I could use some shuteye before the thing tonight."

"Yeah. Yeah, me too. Grissom leaving? You wanna wait for him?"

"Nah. I think he'll probably stay a while. Free coffee refills and he can sit and observe people. Man has some weird hobbies."

His partner squinted, the appraising look back on his face. "You sure you're okay, bro? You look pale even for you."

"Ha ha. Yeah, just the knee. Think I may've overdone it a bit today. On the knee, I mean."

"You think?" Warrick snorted. "C'mon. Go home and ice it up. You need to be on your game later. Just think- it may all be over tonight."

"Yeah, that'd be nice," Nick muttered. "Over would be really frickin' good."

* * *

_A/N:_

_Again many thanks to those who have taken a moment to express your comments. After such a long, wonderful trip, its that returned kindness that makes our day. Only six more left to go._


	20. Chapter 20

The sneeze had to have been an eight on the Richter scale, its tremors felt all the way into the parking lot, if not some tiny little island in Malaysia. He blew his nose, the tissue definitely _not _the cottony softness the ads had promised. Writing a consumer complaint e-mail would be the first thing he did when it didn't feel like his entire sinus system was emptying through his nostrils. David Hodges watched his nose grow steadily from pink to red as the hours dragged on, and he wanted to make everyone else around him feel as miserable as he did.

He could have called in sick, of course, but he didn't want to have to deal with the inevitable backlog of work that would have piled up in his absence. The problem with his plan to make anyone who wasn't suffering his woes _feel_ like they were was that his co-worker for the night was just as grumpy.

David peered up from his microscope to glare at his formidable foe, but then had to give the man credit. Nick was beating him at his own game. The tech's ire would rise at his situation, and then deflate like a leaky balloon whenever he caught the vibes off of the criminalist.

The guy had been ignoring him all night, but that had never thwarted his attempts before. CODIS had beeped that Nick's results were in a full five minutes ago, and it was driving him nuts that the other man hadn't grabbed the report.

"I guess Catherine's case can be kept waiting," he muttered as he strolled over, pulled the readout, and moseyed over to where Nick still examined a blood stain.

Hodges held the results aloft, annoyed when they were not speedily accepted. He shook the findings in front of the guys' face, paper crackling in the air. Nick's head snapped up, irritated, eyes squinting as he snagged the report out of his fingers. David crossed his arms as Nick scanned the printout.

"Not a match," Nick grumbled.

"Sometimes the husband didn't do it," David snarked. "Guess you guys have to get more creative than putting all of your eggs in one basket."

"Guess motive and opportunity mean nothing to you," Nick snapped back.

He rolled his eyes. "Not to a tech. We're more interested in polymers of nucleotides and how they encode the amino acids in DNA."

"Quoting high school chemistry, Goose? Who ya think that impresses?"

The criminalist prodded another box, sifting through its contents with his gloved hands. "You know where the C samples are?"

David walked away in search of another useless box of kleenex, his nose tickling with a warning of another gullywash. "They're on the other shelf behind you."

As he searched for the cold comfort of the sandpaper the manufacturer insisted on calling 'soft', he heard Nick rummage around, making a mess of his neat as a pin lab.

"I swore they were here," the peeved Texan drawled as David found his tissues.

"Told you- they're on the shelf, third row down to be exact," the tech muttered as he went back to his own analysis.

He glanced over to see Nick push off the desk then use its width to lean against as he limped over to check a table completely opposite of where David had told him to look.

"You could help me look, man," Nick grumbled as he glared at the trace tech.

Now that just took the cake. The DNA tech wasn't about to be abused in his own lab. He stomped over and found the extra specimens exactly where he said they'd be.

He dangled them in front of Nick's face, rather dramatically, for a moment, "I know you're pissed off that you're stuck back in the lab because of your knee, but that doesn't mean that I get to be your whipping boy all night."

Did he have snot hanging from his nose? Oh, that would certainly add insult to injury. He checked to be sure, as Nick stared at him with a look of bewilderment.

The criminalist took the offered evidence. "Just wanted to know where they were is all," he muttered.

God, he was invisible in his own domain, and apparently not worth paying attention to. "I see." Then he amended himself, trying to rein in his annoyance. "You don't think I want to get out there every once in a while? Get my hands dirty?"

He cocked his head as Nick just looked mystified. "Well, I mean not on the messy cases, or well, ones dealing with dead people. But to be left behind during a sting? That's like something off of that NCIS show."

The criminalist leaned heavily, one hip rested on the edge of the work area, one hand rubbing at his temple.

David rattled on, not knowing when he's have this kind of attention again. "You know, when I was a kid I loved it when Crockett and Tubbs went undercover. And Magnum PI? Oh, he got all the hot babes. But those guys got shot at and crashed very expensive cars. I, for one, am generally happy to sit on the sidelines and cheer the team on."

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose, then brought his hand over to tug at his earlobe.

David hesitated and lightly patted the other man on the shoulder. "Science is cool, Nick. Heck, my lady friend even told me she found geeks _very sexy._" He closed the distance between them, lowering his voice. "Nothing wrong with being who you are. Let the guys with the guns get put in harm's way and let us find the best ways to nail 'em."

Nick shook his head. "I'm—I'm gonna get some fresh air."

David just stood there as Nick grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the lab table and hobbled out the door, leaving the tech confused about what he might have said wrong.

* * *

He got smiles and nods as he went down the halls, the cane a soft thump on the tile. He'd messed up and messed up bad. After yesterday's efforts, banging on doors and walking the whole day, his poor knee had swelled up so badly that his brace only made things worse- it hurt more when it became too tight. He'd iced the abused joint, cursing at his stupidity just as he did when he couldn't hide it at the diner. In order to even come to work tonight, he'd switched out braces, opting for the bulkier one he'd used during his first weeks back at home.

He noticed a spike in his adrenaline with each open door he passed in his search for outside.

Loud country music blaring from ballistics.

The hum of machinery in an analysis lab.

He passed room after room each containing people holding conversations. Different tones, accents, volume levels, all bouncing off each other, blending into a strange murmur. Each individual conversation was lost within the number of so many voices. The effect had his heart pounding even harder.

The beginning of a low hum crept in and lay on top of all the other sounds, merging everything into one mass of noise. He passed the break room, where a temper-fueled argument competed with an anchorman's voice. That too got swallowed up by the growing inaudible buzz. He moved as quickly as he could, the place becoming more disorienting the longer he remained inside.

He felt the cool crisp night air on his cheeks and his breathing evened out as he gulped it in thirstily. The hum faded to the background, but it persisted, nagging like a squeaky wheel. He wandered out onto the steps, gingerly lowered himself until he sat, bad leg sprawled in front of him.

"What happened to you?"

He looked up to see Conrad Ecklie peering down on him- in every sense of the word.

"Just enjoying the night."

The director adjusted his lightweight coat, looking out at the parking lot as if trying to see what the younger man was so taken by. Then he brought his gaze back down, his eyes resting on the cane.

"Why aren't you at the sting?"

Nick dropped his eyes down at his leg, not meeting his superior's pointed look. "I tweaked my knee yesterday."

Ecklie raised an eyebrow. "I didn't read any report on the incident."

"Wasn't an _incident_. Just overdid it." He didn't look up.

"Still, injuries on the job need to be followed up on, to make sure you get the proper support and, of course, to document what led to more down time."

Nick lifted his head to glare coolly. "Wouldn't want the department to look bad."

"Yeah, we've had enough of that already."

The low lingering hum grew exponentially, swirling everything else in its maelstrom. He squinted as Ecklie read him what he assumed was the riot act. It was the same pressure on his ears, all sound fading in and out like someone turning the knobs on a stereo.

Nick looked blankly on, just as he had the night before when he thought his television was broken; the audio kept going out on him. He was so frustrated, it got to the point where he threw his remote at the screen and went to bed with half a pain pill.

Ecklie mouthed his spiel until the words caught up and finally registered in Nick's ears.

"... so I'll be sure to talk to Catherine about it.

"Fine," he grunted.

Ecklie nodded towards the door as he plastered on a fake grin. "Well, we've all been a little forgetful today. I left my keys on my desk."

Nick rubbed his hand behind his ear. Ever since the diner, his hearing had gone in and out constantly. It'd never done that before... a moment here and there, yeah, but it never hung around for more than a few minutes. When he'd gone to bed, the sounds of his home didn't lull him to sleep- it was silence battling white noise.

The battle waged on at work, making him pissy. He had to get away from Hodges; hearing the man moan and groan over a simple cold was one thing, but to go from that annoying whine to nothing at all had begun to scare him badly.

He wrung his hands over the handle of his cane, slowly feeling himself slip away to an enemy that beat him down with silence. He didn't know whether to run away to his truck or suck it up and go back inside to finish another shift. The sting was in full swing and the bastard who was behind all this might finally get taken down and there was no way he would miss that. Being unable to have a hand in catching the guy, whose acts left him more scarred then he wanted to admit, made him boil from within.

With a groan, he got back to his feet, determined to get through the night. He'd left his migraine medication in the truck and decided he might as well grab it just in case. His head was already beginning to show signs of an impending one.

He made slow progress on his trek towards his truck. He glanced at the handicap spots he refused to use, Doc Robbins' PT Cruiser in the third slot. He politely waved at Charlie Pickens, one of the morgue workers, as he hurried by. That guy had the weirdest sense of humor; coroners must collect their jokes at conventions or something.

He passed all the reserved areas filled with Beemers, Audis, and even a red Corvette that belonged to one of the directors and their large salary. The lab balked at the money needed for equipment yet some of the powers that be flashed dollars like the high rollers on the strip.

He sighed, his cane crushing loose asphalt. Only a little further to his truck. He kept his head bowed slightly as two guys were obviously having a blow out in the parking lot next to a gorgeous Mercedes S class; it wasn't polite to eavesdrop, so he did the respectful thing and tried to avoid them. How many times did words explode into red hot arguments? It was just polite to move on and not let someone know they had an audience.

He glanced at his wristwatch and tried to speed his trek along, his _break_ running way over the typical coffee run. He glanced at the ticking second hand and caught a flash of blond hair in his peripheral vision. The shorter guy waved his hands angrily at his companion and Nick's feet slowed down, but not enough to attract attention.

There was _something_... something _off _and it prickled the hairs on his neck. He couldn't see the man's face, just a stocky build, a dark jacket covering any distinctive clothes. As he put yards in between them, Nick caught a green patch with something purple embroidered on it. He ducked behind a Dodge and observed the fight from a slight distance.

A taller, larger dude got right into Blonde's face. "Yer follerin' me now? Can't trust yer own brother?"

"Jaysus, Kevin, I told ya. We're aren't back home, lad. We moved here to get away from it all. To start over."

"I'm doin' this fer you, Mikey. Fer all of those who looked up to ya fer years. Why can't you understand? We can't just walk away from our past."

The older brother's body sagged, his anger spent with the words, but he ran a hand through his frazzled hair and shook his head disappointedly. "Blood. I'm tired of it. You don't want all that blood on yer hands, Kev—it'll eat ya up alive. This," and he waved around, "it's our home and you can't keep fuckin' things up."

The dark-haired brother's jaw tightened and his hands shook at his sides, fists balled up. "Ye should be proud of what I've done... gone and - - - - - -"

_It _was back, seizing the rest of the man's words. He tugged at his ear but it did nothing to alleviate the thrum that replaced all sound in his head. He eased closer, cupping his ear.

"... stupid... thinking... comin' ..." Older brother's wavered in and out.

"... show them... never went off then... goddamn plumber... and the ..."

Nick used the bony part of his wrist to thump his head in frustration. Why the hell did this have to happen now? He looked back at the doors to the Lab. He couldn't risk turning back and allowing them to leave while he was gone searching for help. Confronting them unarmed and alone wasn't top of his list either. Thinking quickly, the static filling his head Nick dug out his cell phone, his finger poised over his speed dial, but he realized Jim was away. He searched his contact list and hit send to Alex Vartann.

He nearly crushed his phone to his head, willing it to be louder, and was relieved when the voice on the other end jolted into his ear.

_Just keep it together, Stokes._

Once Nick filled the detective in on the possibility of the two suspects arguing right here on their very own turf, Alex warned him to stay put. It felt good to be taken at his word, despite so many resources staked out across town. Nick could see in the distance the detective and two of his men come out of the front doors, acting as inconspicuously as possible. Knowing that this could be a serious encounter, Nick figured that other officers were probably heading to the parking lot from another direction, the two men still locked in their ever- growing exchange.

Alex and one of the plainclothes made small talk, genuine sounding laughter floating out over the near empty parking lot. The other man split off from them and headed towards the opposite end of the lot jingling keys in his hand.

Nick watched as the two suspects stopped talking, turning to observe the three men who had encroached on their argument. The blonde grabbed a hold of the brunette's arm and began tugging at it roughly, obviously trying to get him to leave.

The dark haired man refused to budge, ripping his arm free with an angry scowl.

As the two continued their argument Alex waved a good-bye to his friend and split off as well, headed for a dark blue Crown Vic, his unmarked from the motor pool.

Once he got to the car he 'dropped' his keys, then remained crouched behind the vehicle, tossing hand signals at his fellow cops.

Nick tensed, wanting, _aching_, to help in the takedown, but his knee was growling at him just from his awkward position half squatting, half leaning against the car.

At some prearranged sign the three cops began to move towards the two suspects. The blonde suddenly stiffened, struck his companion on the arm and gestured towards where one of the detectives headed their way.

Brunette scowled and put his hand to his pocket. Blonde shook his head sternly and grabbed the other man, pulling him towards the outskirts of the parking lot where an alley ran between two buildings and eventually out to the road that ran behind the lab.

Nick rose from his crouch, hissing at his knee, about to take off in pursuit when he saw three unis emerge from the alley, effectively blocking off the suspects' retreat.

Blonde pushed his brother hard, hissing out a "Kev!" and pointing in between the line of cars they stood near. The two men sprinted through the obstacle course, headed towards where Nick still stood, bent-backed- next to the Dodge. He grit his teeth and dug in his heels as the men ran past him - reaching out with his cane and tripping up the blonde, sending him sprawling across the blacktop.

"Kev!" The blonde shouted as he scrambled to his knees. The brunette stopped in his tracks, turned and cast an anguished look at his fallen companion. "Mikey? Aw, Jaysus!"

The dark haired man tossed his head wildly, still scanning for an out, then gave his brother a sorrowful look and took off running again. He made it about ten yards before Alex took him down with a flying tackle, ramming the man into the side of a beat up Ford.

Blonde made it to his feet, his head turning to look behind him at what had taken him down.

His eyes met Nick's and widened in surprise.

And then recognition.

Nick squinted, staring at the man as he remained frozen in his crouch. It was the man from the pub; the man who had warned him of the bomb. On the front of his dark blue windbreaker was a green patch with a purple rose.

"It was you..." Nick took a hesitant limping step towards the blonde. It broke whatever spell the man was under and he spun on his heels making it only a few steps before three unis descended on him, pulling him down to the ground. He writhed within his captors' grasps, kicking and flailing his arms but the three officers quickly brought him under control, wrangling his hands behind his back so they could slap the cuffs on his wrists.

Nick shuffled over to retrieve his fallen cane, leaning against it as he watched the uniforms hustle the man over to a squad car that pulled up, flashing lights strobing across the dark parking lot.

* * *

Blonde and brunette had gained names. Not voluntarily of course, but their prints were on file in AFIS due to their recent immigration from Northern Ireland.

Blonde was Michael Padrig Flaherty, his dark-haired younger brother, Kevin Seamus. They had been in the country with their grandmother, Roisin McMahon, for the last two years.

Alex eyed the man sitting across the table from him. Kevin had been uncontrollable, fighting like a wild animal, screaming obscenities at the group of unis they'd needed to wrestle him into a holding cell. He spat like an angry camel at the unfortunate officer in charge of pulling the cage door shut behind him, and hadn't stopped yelling since. But Michael sat quietly, uncuffed, a fresh cup of coffee untouched in front of him.

"You know, you can drink that," Alex said, gesturing at the cardboard cup. "You need more sugar or something?"

Michael just glared at him, settling back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ooo-kay. Coke maybe? No? Okay. No beverages. How about some answers?"

His only answer was the man readjusting his seat in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Alex continued on gamely. "You wanna start by telling me what you and your brother were doing hanging out in the CSI parking lot?"

"It's a free country. At least that's what they tell me," the man said with a cold smile and a heavy Irish accent.

"It's a far cry from where you came from, huh, Michael? Things tough for a guy like you over there?"

"Things have been tough for the Irish for over two hunderd years. We adapt."

"What about your brother? Kevin doesn't look like he adapts well. "

That finally got a reaction. "Leave me brother outa it!"

"Can't, Kevin. See your brother's in it. Deep in it. And so are you."

"Fer what? Hangin around a parking lot? Write me a ticket fer it," Michael said with a sneer.

Alex played with his tie, pulling it out and smoothing the silk between his fingers. "So why the Crime Lab parking lot, Michael?"

"Was a nice night, felt like takin' a walk with me brother is all."

"Odd place for a walk, wouldn't you say, Nick?"

The CSI nodded, and still hadn't said a word since he'd taken a seat in the interrogation room.

"Were you,uh, talking a walk the night CSI Stokes saw you at the George?"

"Don't know what yer talkin about. What's that?"

"Oh, I think you know. Now, I only saw you from the back but CSI Stokes, here? He got a real good look at your face. And he remembers you."

"Stokes? Aren't you the poor sod that got blown up in that pub explosion?"

Nick nodded again, his eyes never leaving Michael's face.

"Nice scar on yer head. Took a mighty big thumpin' I'd wager. Who knows what you saw. Or who."

"I know what and who I saw," Nick said shortly, his voice low and deep. "I saw you. You warned me there was a bomb inside that building."

The Irishman just snorted disdainfully.

"Now if you were the man who'd planted that bomb, what could possibly be gained in warning people about it?" Nick continued, leaning his arms on the table.

No reply so Nick kept talking.

"Nothing, right? Course, the only way you could warn people about a bomb is if you knew it was in there, right?"

Alex settled back in his seat, giving the Texan a little room to roam.

"You tried, I'll give ya that," Nick said, hands open on the table. "I mean, there were a hundred people in that pub. It coulda been a real tragedy. Was only dumb luck that we'd cleared most of 'em out- no one coulda ever guessed that there'd be a fight that killed two people."

"Two less feckin' Brits in the world. A real tragedy," Michael muttered.

"Actually, there were four more killed in the pub bombing. One of 'em was a 21 year old kid. And Vegas lost one of her finest. A rookie cop, there defending the public- a public you belong to now.

Three more men were killed at the brewery. Hard workin' men with families. They died just cuz they showed up for work."

Alex sat up straighter as he saw their suspect's face fall a bit, his body slumping in the chair. He flashed a look at Nick, urging him to keep going.

The CSI leaned closer over the table. "Your brother's got some problems. Anger management, for one I'd guess. Took three uniformed officers to take him down. He have a tough time of things back home?"

Nick opened a manila folder, the information inside courtesy of Penny Lovejoy's hurried calls and computer research.

"British Intelligence had quite a dossier on you, Michael. You were suspected in several bombings in Derry and Belfast."

He pushed the folder over for Alex to read. "Maybe we're lookin' at the wrong man, Nick," Alex said as he scanned the reports. "Michael looks like the go to guy for bomb making. Kevin's record looks pretty clean. Bar fights, some minor assault arrests."

"Yeah, but Michael's been a good boy the last several years," Nick said, picking up his part. "And Kevin's record gets spottier as the years go on. That last bar fight nearly killed a man. Your little brother's got a temper, huh, Michael?"

"Leave my brother outa this."

"Outa what, Michael?"

The Irishman narrowed his eyes at Alex's question.

"What happened to your brother's hand, Michael? Looked like it had been pretty badly burned."

"Work. He did it at work," the blonde spat back at Nick.

"Yeah, I see that." The CSI paged through the file, pulling out another typed sheet. "We were runnin' down lists of employees with injuries. Kevin's name appears on the list. He works at the Chevy plant, right?"

"You know he does."

"The accident report says he started a fight with fellow employee. Used some pretty vile soundin' racial epithets, then tried to burn his coworker with an acetylene torch. If his hand hadn't a slipped, looks like his target woulda lost his face."

" 's not the way Kev tells it," the suspect muttered.

"Yeah, I don't doubt it. That burn would had him offa work for a month, don't you think so, Detective?"

"At least, Nick. 'bout the same time as the hiatus between bombings."

It was working. Nick kept his eyes on the man while he and Alex batted him back and forth like a badminton birdie. Michael tried for cool but was squirming in his seat, his eyes darting between his two interrogators.

It was time to take it up a notch.

Nick leaned in, grabbing the Irishman's eyes with his. "It give you a little breathin' room, Michael? Let you relax, maybe think it might be all over?"

He sat back with a sigh, never losing his laser lock on the suspect's eyes. "You had to know that Kevin would start up again the minute his hand healed up enough."

Michael's eyes dropped to the table. _Gotcha._

"You knew, didn't you, Michael. Your brother, for all his… problems… isn't a dumb guy. He went to vocational school in Belfast. Got great reviews from his employer… until he started pickin' fights. So why did his bombs keep failin'?"

Nick gave the man a smile. "They didn't, did they, Michael? You know, despite my 'thumpin'', as you put it, I _do_ remember seeing you at the pub. Nice patch. Carnie Premier League, huh?"

Michael dashed a quick look at the front of his jacket, then caught himself and blanked his face once more.

"You were at the pub," Nick continued. "You warned me there was a bomb in there. And my guess is that you followed your brother. You knew what he was doing. You disarmed his devices after he left them."

Michael began shaking his head, laughing.

"You spin a right good tale, Mr. Stokes."

Nick grinned. "Don't think it's a tale, Michael. I don't tell tales. I follow the evidence."

"What evidence? You got me and me brother havin' a walk in your parking lot. That's all."

Nick continued as if the other man had never spoken.

"What happened at the brewery? Why didn't _they_ get a warning? Three men _died_ in that blast, Michael! Innocent men who did nothing more than show up for work! Were ya just too late?"

The Irishman scowled and looked away.

"You can't always be there, Michael. Your brother will keep plantin' bombs, and you'll run yourself ragged tryin' to take of them, but you can't. Always. Be. There."

The CSI cocked his head. "You ever heard of Ted Kaczynski?"

Alex raised eyebrows at the non sequitor and the suspect narrowed his eyes as if he hadn't heard the question right.

"Ted Kaczynski," Nick repeated. "He was better known as the Unabomber. He was responsible for 16 bombs. Left 29 people injured and disfigured. Killed three people." He paused, letting the information sink in. "His little brother, David, he looked up to Ted. Used to believe in the same things his brother did. But he gradually grew to realize that his brother was sick."

Michael closed his eyes, ran a hand through his blonde curls.

"David finally went to the FBI. It wasn't easy for him. He loved his big brother- looked up to him, ya know? I have a big brother. Man, the sun used to rise and set on him in my eyes. He taught me to throw a proper fastball, how to drive stick. And Kevin? He probably looks up to you.

But David suspected that his brother might be the Unabomber. And when Ted's Manifesto was published in the papers, David knew immediately that his brother had written it. That his brother was responsible for the bombings. Responsible for three people's deaths. And he knew he couldn't let any more innocent people die."

Nick leaned in as Michael's eyes misted over and he chewed on his finger. "Your brother is already responsible for _eight peoples' deaths._ You can't let more innocent people die, Michael."

The Irishman shook his head. "Kevin didn't do nuthin'. You don't have anything!"

Alex spoke up. "The state of Nevada has the death penalty, Michael. Kevin'll do hard time while he waits for the needle."

The blonde exploded, pushing back from the table and standing up, Alex rising, his hand on his gun at his hip. "Easy, Michael, easy. Just sit back down. We're just talking."

"You're not touchin' a hair on his head," Michael said, breathing heavily. "Not one fecking hair."

Nick had remained seated, his knee completely locked up after the night's exertions. "David made a deal with the Feds to save his brother, Michael. The Unabomber is still alive. And he's not hurtin' anybody any more.

We could get the DA to offer the same deal. You have to do this, for Kevin."

"For Kevin? What? Turn my brother in? How's that gonna help him?"

"Your brother has innocent men's blood on his hands. He won't stop, Michael. What's his next target gonna be? A shopping mall? A bus station? A school?"

"Aw, Jaysus!" Michael wailed. He tore his hands through his hair, tears now coursing down his cheeks.

Nick pulled a small plastic baggie from within the folder.

"This is a piece of your brother's hair. He lost it in the struggle with the officers, after knocking one man's molar loose and biting another.

There are tests, Michael, that I can do, that'll prove that Kevin made those bombs. The chemical makeup of each of them has been broken down to elemental levels. And I'm gonna find those same levels in his hair.

This is your chance to save your little brother's life. Speak up now and I promise your brother's life will be spared."

"He... he needs help," the brother choked out. "He's not right in the head, never has been."

"Why don't you sit back down and start from the beginning, Michael?"

He nodded slowly, sitting heavily into the chair, staring at his hands.

"It all started in Belfast …"

* * *

The man told them of their rocky childhood, of the death of their parents; the father at the hands of British soldiers and the mother of breast cancer. How their grandmother took them in and raised them. What it was like growing up Catholic in Belfast, and the violence that comprised their everyday life.

"Nana used to sing this song to us. _The Minstrel Boy._ Lyrics are all about taking a stand, fightin' the good fight. Pickin' up where your da left off."

Michael then began to tell them of the start of the trouble with Kevin. The fights at school. The sudden bursts of temper for no reason.

Nick sat back in his chair, rubbing at his knee, tired to the bone. Wearied by the tales of violence and the sad childhoods the men had had, the deaths it had all led up to.

And then _it _was back. The blanket of white noise humming in his head, blocking out all sound. He let his eyes close as the now familiar dizziness washed over him.

He stood abruptly, grabbing his cane and mumbling something about having to use the facilities, and hobbled out of interrogation. He kept his head down, breaths coming in short pants as he entered the restroom.

Quickly entering a stall, he slapped the lock shut and leaned against the wall, eyes squeezed shut so as not to see the room spinning around him.

He'd done good. He'd held it together in the interrogation. Just breathe through it and it'll pass.

And it did.

After a few minutes he left the stall, stopping at the sink to splash some cold water on his face, pulling free a paper towel to wipe away the sweat from his brow.

He looked at himself in the mirror, the image reflected back pale and haggard. And still too thin. He rubbed his fingers on the scar at his temple, then down the fresh pink scarring on the side of his jaw.

Something still wasn't right.

They had Kevin dead to rights, his brother still spilling his guts. But why was Vegas' Most Wanted man found in the parking lot at CSI?

The door to the restroom swung open, and Conrad Ecklie swaggered in.

The AD straightened his tie in the mirror, smoothing down an eyebrow and checking his teeth.

"Nice work, Stokes. I heard we coulda had this joker on the table in a few years, but you went soft on us."

"All we had was circumstantial evidence, Conrad. We needed the brother's testimony. And what are you doing at the station at this time of night? I thought you were headed home?"

"This is the biggest bust we've ever had, Nick. At least while I've been Assistant Director. Wanted to make sure we had everything under control. We can't lose this guy. Can't have the Lab looking bad if he slipped through on a technicality or a botched test."

He turned and gave Nick his pearly smile. "But actually, I am heading home. At least for a quick shower and a change of shirt and tie. I'm thinking my navy suit with the red tie. Red's a power color, I'm told. Press conference in an hour."

Nick nodded. "Congrats. Have fun." And he turned to pick up his cane where it rested against the sink.

"Best part of all this is picturing Gil and his gang all sitting on a trap that'll never get sprung. All that planning, and we get the Vegas Bomber right here. Beautiful irony, Stokes."

Nick just scowled and limped past the AD, reaching the door, then freezing in place.

"Conrad..."

The AD was back admiring himself in the mirror. "Hmm?"

"Your car. Mercedes S class?"

"An S550. Black, tan interior. Why?"

"You might wanna re-think heading home tonight. And I think we need to call Bomb Squad."

* * *

_A/N: There will be no posting on Friday becuse of the holidays. Normal posting will resume next week on Tuesday/Fridays._

_Thanks to the loyal few and some of the new folks, for your kindness._


	21. Chapter 21

It had to be a cold day in Hell, ice covering every inch of a brimstone and fire-scarred landscape. Lakes of refreshing water dousing the most parched throat, snowflakes falling and creating a steam bath of frigid mists. Conrad Ecklie had not only allowed a party to take place to celebrate all the victories of the night; he made the wise decision not to ruin everything by being present. The break room was filled with members of the Lab, employees dipping in and out to grab the food brought in from a nearby diner. The news with Callie Christopher roared in the background, but the chatter about her exclusive breaking story could not compete with the excitement of the group gathered or the music blaring from a boom box stolen from the AV room.

Grissom stood in the corner, polite mask in place, observing those around him release tension from the many months of turmoil that had affected every facet of the lab, and had stained each individual in some way with its heavy, loathsome touch. Instead of short tempers and petty bickering, his ears filled with loud voices, rich with jubilation, jokes, and even laughter.

Catherine made her way over, face etched with the toll that the latest closed case had inflicted on her. She gave him a wan smile and patted him on the shoulder. "Figures I'm huddle in a cramped van with the ripe bodies of people who need to buy a clue and the biggest case this year literally walks right into our own backyard." She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. "Must be a sign."

He pursed his lips. "Maybe just a turning point."

"At least this change in luck was one for the best. Maybe I'll see Lindsey for more than five minutes and we can all stop to catch a breath."

"Until the next headline is splashed on the front page."

Catherine shook her head. "Ever the optimist, Gil. Maybe for tonight you can relax a little. In about…" she looked at her watch, "in _less_ than an hour, I'll be sipping something harder than just coffee."

"I still have the rest of my shift," he shrugged.

She laughed, scanning the ever-growing crowd. "I don't see the man of the hour."

"I'm not sure if he's done signing autographs." Grissom pointed towards Nick trying to ward off the attention of several employees.

Catherine's smiled broadened. "I don't think Nicky's very comfortable with his new rock star status."

"Nick's not about the spotlight, but the intense glow can be very overwhelming," Gil said softly.

"I don't know about all that." Warrick strolled in, huge dopey grin on his face. "Nick, man. Get over here!" he shouted, every face in the room now looking on expectantly at the Lab's hero.

One of the techs tapped the younger man's shoulder and pointed in their direction. Grissom could see Nick's eyes roll even from this distance as he extracted himself from his admirers and hobbled through the sea of merry revelers. Each person clapped or patted his back as he navigated the sea of ecstatic co-workers.

Nick eyes glared at his buddy and upon reaching their tiny corner of the room, shook his head. "What? Your two perfectly working legs couldn't make it across the break room, bro?"

Warrick and Nick did their ghetto low five-high five-whatever hand gesture thing the two had memorized.

"Looks like my bud learned his moves from old ladies in a New York train station," the taller man joked, pointing to the cane in new admiration.

Nick looked on questioningly while his partner jibed him. "You got some karate moves to go with your new weapon?"

The Texan followed his friend's gaze. "Just usin' what I had," he laughed. "Doesn't even need to be oiled or cleaned."

"To think I was bustin' ass on a robbery that popped up on route to the sting and the bad guys came here."

"Good thing you were taking a break," Catherine added.

Nick bowed his head and Grissom wasn't sure it was out of modesty as the younger man gripped his cane tighter.

The new Swing supervisor bobbed her head as a funky tune got turned up a notch, the party swelling with the music. Bobby Dawson grabbed Catherine's hand as they boogied their way towards a clear area. Other people pushed aside tables and did likewise with whoever was free. Catherine had no problem showing off a few dance moves playfully with the other man, as she obviously let off steam to the lyrics of some guy rapping about a short person's birthday. Gil just shook his head in confusion.

Greg and Sara finally made it to the festivities after a last minute check on some last results from an impending case. The rookie took it upon himself to try to show his own moves. Though Grissom for the life of him didn't know if those jerky spasms could count as dancing, the young female intern Greg had snagged to show off with seemed amused.

"What I'd like to know is how you knew there was a bomb in Ecklie's car?" Sara chimed in, eyebrows arched in expectation.

Grissom was interested in this too, but he stood in the background while everyone waited in rapt attention. Nick did his best to explain, as humbly as possible, while he tried to ease the weight off of his left leg, lifting it from the ground in an obvious attempt to find a more comfortable stance. The guy's knee had to be in agony after being pushed beyond its limit the other day and then run around on all night. Grissom nonchalantly snagged two chairs and casually brought one over to the other man. The second he dropped into himself.

Nick gave him a relieved expression and painstakingly eased himself into it, bad leg stretched out before him and some of that tenseness in his jaw relaxing a little.

"I dunno," Nick continued. "We all knew there was a pattern of some kind, but the last bombing at that fancy restaurant was way off."

"But we were still trying to nail down his targets. Why did the one the other night bother you?" Sara was honestly curious; everyone could tell she was stumped.

"It," Nick fumbled a moment. "It seemed even more impulsive than the others... so much more random. The place hadn't opened yet, didn't have a thing to do with British anything."

"The bakery was Japanese owned though."

Nick's smile twisted as he thought about Warrick's comment. "Yeah, but unless the bomber was researchin' financial records, he was never gonna know that. For me it was always the name... Buckingham Bakery. The royal branding seemed too perfect to pass up, not to mention the way that place was designed to look like the real palace."

Sara growled impatiently. "And this had you sniffing out bombs in the parking lot?"

"Ha. Ha. No," he drawled. "Bombers are irrational, prone to allowing emotional influence over their perceived targets. Some Italian eatery didn't jive with our guy's obvious hatred towards all things British, unless it was a hatred of _someone_ at that grand opening."

"Ecklie." Warrick humphed under his breath.

"Those news conferences." Nick shook his head. "Always raggin' on the guy in public- it was like wavin' a red flag at a rodeo."

"I didn't know you knew a lot about the psychological makeup of bombing suspects," Grissom said, finally breaking his silence.

Nick looked up at him. "Had a lot of down time and thought the subject matter might help out in the future."

Grissom had no doubts of that or of Nick's quest to find out the motives of a person who had had such an impact on his life.

"Still, Nick. I just..."

The criminalist waved his hand at Sara to cut her off. "It dawned on me later. In the restroom in fact."

"Do all your best thinking there?"

Warrick nudged Sara admiringly.

Nick didn't seem to let the jokes at his expense faze him. Grissom found himself more and more impressed by the young man's ability to take everything in stride.

"It bothered me that our suspects were here and I guess my mind wanted to know what the target coulda been. When Conrad came in, acting his usual self, I remembered passing his car in the parking lot. It just clicked."

"You followed your instincts; an invaluable skill for a good criminalist."

The three stared at him in amazement, especially Nick who was rendered speechless. It dawned on him that giving out compliments had become such a rare thing, and he sighed to himself, knowing he would now have fewer chances to make up for such things.

"So, the brother didn't know about the bomb?"

Nick took a moment to steer his bewildered expression back over to his partner. "Nah. He followed Kevin over here after he planted it. I spoke to him after the bomb squad took over and found it."

"What I would have paid to see Ecklie's face," Sara said with a sigh.

"It was more human than you might think," Nick said offhandedly. Then the tiniest smile grew. "Though I did get a kick outa watchin' them tear his fancy car apart lookin' for it."

They all laughed. "I think there're still parts hangin' around the parking lot," Nick chuckled.

Warrick rolled his eyes. "A'ight. How'd the guy know which car to screw around with?"

"Alex asked that same question. Apparently Kevin was in the crowd after the bomb didn't go off, and he went down to find out why. When he saw Ecklie on the scene, he just waited and watched."

"Creepy," Sara muttered.

Next time he would get crowd shots when his instincts went on alert. Grissom let his mind wander, recalling that nagging voice from that night, but, for some reason, it was still not satisfied.

Someone decided to play DJ and turned up the volume control, cranking up the party once more. It made talking a challenge and Warrick extended his hand to Sara who smiled coyly at him.

"I don't dance."

"Aw, c'mon, Sara. You can cut loose for once." Warrick wouldn't take no for an answer and had one arm wrapped around her shoulders as he eased her out on to the makeshift dance floor amidst some playful protests.

Wendy and Mia took that exact moment to wander over and Grissom laughed at the thought that Nick would be relieved of some sticky circumstances thanks to his bum joint. Apparently having the attention of two ladies caused the young man to smile sheepishly... a lot. As his former supervisor, he was about to come up with a way out of the awkward position; Nick was, after all, trapped in his chair. But the young man would have to fend for himself as he saw Penny Lovejoy and Conrad Ecklie entering the room, the director gesturing for him to come over.

To try and spare himself just a bit more time away from the man, Grissom took his time getting there. The feisty but ever gracious MI-5 agent extended her hand to the Grave shift supervisor in greeting.

"I wanted to say goodbye and offer my country's thanks for a job well done, Gil."

He took her grip and nodded. "It was a team effort, Penny."

"Indeed it was. I've already written a letter to your State Department, as well as the Sheriff, applauding the efforts of this Lab and of Mr. Stokes, whose detection of those two lads in the parking lot and his brilliant interrogation closed this case for good."

Grissom smiled. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Although if you told him in person," he said, eying Conrad.

She patted his shoulder. "Already did. Several times. What a lovely gentleman. I don't think he's used to such praise."

He looked back to see Nick sitting alone, hand kneading a spot behind his ear, staring off into the crowd with the oddest expression on his face. Mia and Wendy were nowhere to be seen and Nick seemed to be disturbed… or was it distracted?

"Don't worry Ms. Lovejoy; I've had a plan to take care of such recognition for a while now."

Grissom cocked his head in his 'oh really?' manner.

Conrad's smug expression grew. "Can't have the man responsible for raising the bar at this Lab go unnoticed like it has been for so long."

The British agent smirked, obviously knowing there was a ploy afoot. "Mr. Ecklie, I do have a flight to catch."

"Yes, of course."

Grissom let it slide for now, as he wasn't in the mood for more politicking. He cast another look over at Nick as something gnawed at him about the younger man's disposition. He looked so self-isolated. Grissom's feet were turning but an arm encircled his.

"Would you mind escorting me out along with Mr. Ecklie?"

Grissom wasn't about to be rude. "Well, of course, Penny."

After taking the time to chat a bit more about the idea of working abroad, Grissom made it back to the lab, stopped three times along the way by various people offering congratulations and a detective letting him know about a cold case that had warmed up again. After grabbing some files and dropping them off at his desk, he made it back to the break room.

He looked in the doorway to find everyone was still celebrating but the person who had created the reason for the joy was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

From the time that he'd made the mental connection about the bomb in Conrad's car, through the subsequent flurry of the bomb squad's arrival and the device's removal from the AD's car, on through the return of the rest of the team from the sting that wasn't, and the hand shaking and backslapping, he'd managed to keep it together. There'd been no repeat of the hearing problems of earlier and other than his knee slowing him up, it had been a rollercoaster of adrenaline and activity.

Then came the culmination of it all- the celebration. Noise and music, talking and laughter. And Nick basked in it. After months of bad news, anxious harried looks, circular discussions and walking on eggshells, the team was finally able to sit back, catch their breath, and live a little.

He sat back in the chair Grissom had surprisingly and gratifyingly procured for him, smiling as he watched the dancing. Mia and Wendy had flanked him, Mia offering her normal acerbic humor and a smooth, close-to-but-not-quite flirtation. All bark and no bite. Wendy was her polar opposite; flustered and fumbling, eager smile and blush-tinted cheeks.

When Mia nodded her head at the impromptu dance floor and raised an inquiring eyebrow, he caught disappointment clouding Wendy's face. He quickly pointed at his outstretched leg and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. No left foot."

The two DNA techs had soon left to find alternative partners, the mood and the music too infectious to ignore for long. He laughed as he saw Wendy dancing with Ronnie, the Questionable Documents tech light on his feet for a man of his generous size. When he dipped her the floor cleared back and gave them more room.

The music changed and a slower song was played, an R& B flavored song with a female singer he didn't recognize. Couples pulled a little closer as the tempo came down a few notches.

The caramel smooth tones of the singer's voice were soothing and he felt his eyelids droop as he relaxed into the music. A party pooper turned the volume off in the middle of the chorus and his head jerked up, realizing as his eyes darted over to the stereo to see who was responsible that he wasn't hearing a chorus of protests from angry partygoers. And there was no one standing near the boom box.

The familiar blanket of white noise dropped over everything and he felt his head growing heavier as if a bag filling with sand.

He growled to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, rubbing behind his ear, finding both actions fruitless.

He waited, sitting with his eyes closed for a few minutes, hoping it would pass as it always had before.

And it didn't.

Five minutes turned to ten, and if anything it got worse. What had been intermittent was now solid silence, his head filled with the buzz of static.

He felt a presence in front of him, a change in air pressure and a shadow on the floor. He looked up to see Wendy had returned, smiling and holding a plate of food.

She gestured at the potato salad and mouthed silent words at him.

"No, thanks. Already had my fill," he said, patting his stomach.

By the crease in her brow and the disappointed look on her face he knew immediately that he'd guessed wrong.

"Sorry, music's kinda loud," he muttered to her as he rose as steadily as he could from his seat, using his cane to push off and away. "I hafta…" and he dashed her an apologetic smile and left the break room, easing himself past people holding voiceless conversations.

He made it out to the parking lot, hauling himself up into his truck, his mind fixated on getting the hell home. Home where he had no worry about people asking him questions he wouldn't be able to answer. Home where he could bury his aching head in his pillow. Home where he could try a little more digging on the internet.

The engine turned over, his only clue the vibration of the machine around him, and he shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, the need for home pushing his foot down heavily on the accelerator.

Traffic was heavy as it always was; twenty-four seven there were cars on the road in Vegas, and brake lights filled his view of the road ahead.

Swallowing back the bile that threatened at the back of his throat he pulled the wheel hard, cutting off an SUV that was probably honking at him considering the finger he saw raised at him out the driver's window, but making it onto a side road, the pedal mashed down to the floor again.

A few more sloppily made turns and he was on a straightaway, his head now throbbing in earnest, the weight in his skull pulling his head to the side. The vertigo was worsening and he saw the streetlights smear into a blur as his surroundings whirled.

He balled his fist up and rapped himself on the head, hard. Again and again, like his brain was a wonky TV that just needed a good whack to adjust the picture. But what may have worked with tubes and electrical wiring did nothing more than increase the amplitude of the hum, the sound- the ONLY sound he'd heard the last twenty minutes now just getting higher and sharper. But still constant. And piercing.

He fumbled his hand on the truck's stereo, watching as the digital readout of the volume rose from five to seventeen. He could feel the vibration- the bass pounding out of the speakers in the door next to him, but nothing breached the cotton wool filling his ears.

He leaned over to knock the volume back down, pulling the steering wheel with him. He felt the truck lurch across the road, the rumble of the tires on the shoulder, and he pulled, too hard, righting the vehicle back on the asphalt with another swerve.

Another wave of nausea washed over him and he closed his eyes briefly against it, trusting to his ability to keep the vehicle on the road for just that short time.

As he opened his eyes he felt the impact of the front tires on the low curb that ran along this section of street, jerking the wheel hard but too late. The front of the truck wrapped around a light pole as his vision filled with the white of his airbag.


	22. Chapter 22

Gil excused himself from the party, not much interested in the fraternization involved in social circle dynamics, or the overly loud music. It was fine to study and observe his people enjoy some very much needed down time, but, for some reason, he was burdened with a heavy sense of dread. It was his senses again, the hidden kind, screaming at him to pay attention. The little alarms had gone off periodically of late, but with the case taking up so much of his concentration until recently, pinpointing the origin of those blips on his radar had been a challenge.

After some casual inquiries, Nick's whereabouts were still a mystery, and until he found he'd walked outside without realizing it. With the Texan's truck gone it was plainly obvious that he went home and that had all the warning bells going off at once. He answered the cell phone that rang at his hip, not exactly surprised, more like things were happening just as expected. Although he wasn't exactly sure how Alex Vartann fit into the equation. When the detective told him he'd heard from a patrol officer concerning his missing CSI, Grissom was already driving out of the parking lot, his hand having already stuck the key in the ignition before his head caught up.

Alex had been vague about the situation and Gil suspected the detective was just as in the dark about the exact nature of the phone call. All Vartann could offer was that a patrolman had called him and, in turn, Alex said it was very important that Grissom go to the scene of a minor car accident.

The location was only a few miles away and in the general direction of Nick's home. There was a single set of flashing red and blue lights and a black police officer waved him towards his patrol car. His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Nick's truck smashed up against a light pole. He quickly scanned the area, relieved to see Nick sitting on the ground, head in both hands.

Grissom made a beeline towards his criminalist but the cop blocked his path.

"Look, Mr. Grissom. I called Vartann because... he was there. He knows. And he told me he was gonna call you. I didn't know what else to do."

For the first time he looked at the officer, a young athletic African American who could easily have fit in as a bouncer at any of the clubs on the Strip. He glanced at the name badge: Matthews.

"Is he hurt?"

The cop's unsure expression spoke volumes. "He doesn't seem injured from the accident."

He didn't like the implication in that message. "Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

Matthews shook his head. "Dude insisted that I didn't."

Nick wasn't seriously injured, yet there was a reason he'd been summoned here. Grissom eyed the cop, still not connecting the dots. "Why did you want me here?" His eyes studied the smashed wreck. "Why didn't you call the accident in?"

Two bulging arms crossed in front the uni's broad chest. "I was there."

He didn't have time for riddles. "Where?"

"The George. My partner, Dobransky, and I were on riot duty. Was our job to corral that mob. Was Stokes who warned us all away, then went back in." The cop looked over at the CSI who hadn't moved. "He saved a bunch of people."

Grissom was struck by the awe in the man's voice and he softened his to match. "Yes, he did."

Fierce brown eyes locked with his. "I still have..." The patrolman paused and licked his lips. "I relive that night over and over. All that chaos, all that destruction... Taylor's death." A hand wiped at his bald head. "Stokes is a good guy. To see him so messed up after what that blast did to him. To hold him down till help arrived..."

"He and Vartann took down the guy responsible for that night and all the other bombings. After today we can put it all behind us."

Officer Matthews held up his ticket book. "There's no written account about what I witnessed earlier."

Now the foreboding prickled at Grissom's skin. "And what was that?"

"A truck veering in and out of its lane for a few hundred yards before crashing into that pole."

Such reckless driving usually meant one thing. The cop seemed to read his mind.

"He isn't intoxicated; no booze on his breath. But... ...look." The young cop struggled for words. "Whatever's wrong, he can't drive himself home. Not the way..." and he trailed off.

_Wrong._ There was something... something that had been off for a while and now it had manifested itself in some ugly way that couldn't be ignored.

"Thank you."

A hand grabbed his shoulder for a moment. "I've never hung out with Stokes off the job, but I know the dude. That's not him... the guy I've seen playing b-ball and busting his ass on the job all the time isn't that same lost soul over there."

Grissom knew he'd be given something heavy... a responsibility that required just the right balance and handling. Ecklie was right; communication was a weak chink in his armor, but it wasn't the only place left vulnerable. This was an area he had little experience in, but right now it was about leaving his comfort zone and forcing Nick along with him.

Nick sat with his bad leg outstretched, the other knee propped up where both elbows balanced his head nestled in between his hands, as if unable to face the world. Grissom wondered how much of this physical position was a real manifestation of a struggle within the younger man's mind. He kneeled in front of him, but when Nick didn't note his presence he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Nick startled, eyes shocked to see him and then a slow dawning of what his boss next to him must have meant.

"Grissom."

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Who... I mean... why?"

He urged Nick up by his elbow. "Do you need help?"

The younger man tried to stand unaided but ended up latching onto his boss's forearm to hoist himself up. Grissom steadied him by the shoulders when Nick almost lost his balance, lurching too far to one side.

Not giving Nick time to protest was part of his plan and he turned in the direction of the officer who had stayed far enough away for some privacy. "Can you get his cane out of his truck?"

Nick's flustered state turned slightly indignant. "Look, Grissom, I can wait on a cab; no need for you to waste the rest of your evening-" Then, thinking a moment, his colleague's expression grew alarmed. "Your shift, you need to--"

"Why don't I be the judge of what I need okay, Nick?"

"_I _don't need to go to an ER." To prove his point, Nick pulled away from the hands meant to give him support.

Grissom stood silently as Officer Mathews approached cautiously and, without a word, handed Nick his cane. The cop walked away and Nick stabbed the rubber end of his aid into the ground.

"I think you should be checked out. You were just in a bad accident."

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

He raised an eyebrow at such a ridiculous statement but didn't push... yet.

"I've got a call, guys- I need to take it. A tow truck will be by in a few hours, but I've secured the vehicle and gave them the address off your registration." Matthews opened his mouth as if to say something else, then appeared to think better of it and just nodded his head and left to go back to his patrol unit.

"Nick, come on."

"Please, Grissom."

He didn't need to hear the tight control of Nick's voice slip to know the man was losing an inner war.

"I just wanna go home," was whispered with the slightest of tremors.

He'd never, _ever _heard that tone from Nick before and he almost acquiesced to the plea. But he shook his head.

The man in question then turned away from his supervisor and showed him his back.

"All right," Grissom acquiesced with a sigh. He waited for a response and got only silence.

Shaking his head, he walked past the other man heading for the lab SUV and glanced back only once. Sad brown eyes widened in surprise that he had won, yet Nick bowed his head in something akin to shame and defeat as he hobbled behind.

Grissom held open the passenger door of the Denali and noted the wince as Nick climbed in stiffly. Ignoring his head screaming at him to drive straight to Desert Palms, Grissom decided to build on the trust the younger man was placing in him and went east instead.

* * *

He parked in the driveway of the secluded neighborhood, hard not to hear Nick stifle a groan as he climbed out of the car. Grissom gave the place a cursory look, realizing he'd never been to Nick's new home. Three years was a long time and he still knew just as little about his friend as he did back then. Keeping a safe distance from people was a skill with which he was highly proficient. He added that to the communication issues to be worked on later.

He took his time as he walked alongside his criminalist. Nick relied heavily on his cane, developing an almost drunken sway by the time they'd reached his security system. Nick dug fingers into the bony occipital area behind his ear as he leaned against his door frame, then he missed a button or two, taking three tries to punch the code in correctly.

Maybe he should have insisted Nick go to the hospital. He couldn't tell if the man was in the throes of another migraine attack or just plain ill.

Once inside Nick lowered his body painfully down onto his sofa, eyes squeezed shut against what appeared to be pain.

"Why are you doing this?"

Nick rubbed at his jaw now, fingers digging into the area where his ear met his skull, instead of giving him a reply.

"I know I'm not the best person to open up to and the past few months have been a kind of Hell I cannot imagine. But if you don't unburden yourself of some of whatever is bothering you, it's going to eat away at you."

Nick dropped his arm over his eyes with a sigh. "The air bag went off so I'm fine. Just gonna be sore. No need to waste a nurse or insurance person's efforts."

"Why did you lose control of a perfectly working car?" Maybe it was time to switch tactics.

Nick lifted his arm to stare at him; maybe using that louder, more authoritative, stern tone was the best course of action.

"Since you didn't have time to guzzle down a six-pack of beer, there must be another reason why you couldn't remain on the road."

Nick sat up, hand bracing his side. "It's nuthin'."

He wouldn't look at Grissom in the eyes and the scientist knew he'd hit the right nerve. Now it was time to trace the origin. "_It _by definition is the acknowledgment of the existence of something"

Nick scowled at him. "I don't need a lecture. I'm fine."

"People don't run off perfectly straight roads if they are fine."

"Thanks for taking me home."

"The Nick I know doesn't avoid questions, he seeks answers."

"I'm _not_ a puzzle." With that angry pronouncement, he got to his feet, faltering a little, but making it upright, face etched in discomfort, but he obviously didn't want to argue sitting down.

"If a person is unable to operate a vehicle, it's typically because the brain is under the influence of drugs or alcohol or that it's impaired in some way."

"I wasn't impaired," the younger man growled.

"What do you call it then?"

Nick limped heavily to place a hand against his wall, his cane still on the couch.

"Was it a migraine? Did one come on suddenly?" He waited a beat. "Someone could have taken you home- it wouldn't have been a problem."

Nick's eyes narrowed at him. "I didn't need to be sent home; if I wasn't there then that bastard would have gotten away. We'd be scraping Ecklie off the parking lot."

"No one said anything about sending..."

And then Grissom's brain finally put it all together.

Nick squinted at him.

"How long have you've been having headaches?"

"It was a rough night, Gris, 'course I have a headache."

Grissom felt a part of him breaking. "How. Long." He adjusted his glasses from where they had slipped down his nose. "How. Often?" he asked more slowly.

Nick shook his head. "Get em' all the time; it's what the doc said to expect."

"Does if affect your vision?"

"Those websites say the same thing." Nick pointed to his laptop.

Grissom started shooting out questions more rapidly, turning his head as he did. "About your vision? Were you seeing a blurry road? What about dizziness? Could you not concentrate anymore?"

Nick just looked on more confused, his body leaning more heavily, his breath coming in short pants.

"I'm not feeling too hot. Could you please leave?"

"Have you visited your doctor? Gotten a recent head CT? ... Anything?"

Nick's face paled, his complexion blanching a pasty white, and he swayed slightly on his feet. Grissom's eyes darted around the house, landing on a trashcan. Quickly, he snatched it up and brought it over , gesturing towards it but Nick's eyes were tightly closed. He thrust the wastebasket into Nick's hands, the Texan grabbing it away as he fell to his knees, a cry of pain escaping his lips before he began heaving into it.

He was way out of his league, had crossed borders of self-preservation, but he couldn't just stand aloofly by while Nick retched some more, nothing left in his stomach to expel. Grissom searched out for a bathroom, grabbed a hand towel and turned on the faucet, running the tap until the water was cold, then soaked the cloth. He returned to find Nick perched at the end of his sofa, hands wrapped around his middle in a frightening flashback to almost two months ago.

Grissom placed the soothing towel around Nick's neck, and used the end to wash away the perspiration there. Nick took the other end to wipe at his mouth but didn't make eye contact. "You seen enough, yet? Want to take some of it away as a sample?" he muttered darkly, pointing at the basket.

"No, Nick. I don't. I just want to help."

The distressed man laughed. "Maybe you can analyze it, find out what's happenin' to me."

"What am I searching for?"

Flat, glassy eyes looked up, then another listless laugh. "Just headaches and some dizziness."

"And the disorientation?" he pressed.

Nick's whole body trembled with tension, face screwed up as if about to burst.

"There's nothing normal about this type of lingering pain. You're a skilled investigator, why can't you put the pieces together?'

Nick shook his head; the denial must have been buried so deeply that the poor man was convinced of its protective and deceitful ways.

"Nick."

"I got caught in a freakin' explosion! I was thrown like a damn rag doll, smashed my head on the pavement!" Nick shouted. "Course some screws got jarred loose or somethin'."

"When are you going to own up to things?" He chose words that Nick would understand.

"You. Don't. Understand." And the anger became a wail of defeat.

"Try me, Nicky."

He almost reached it... could feel the common ground beneath his fingertips even if part of him wanted to avoid it. To keep that aspect of his own life hidden.

Nick was fighting tooth and nail, still acting the ostrich.

"What if Warrick warns you about something? Or worse. You can't warn him about something."

"Warrick?" Nick stared at him, wild eyed, confused.

"What if you're the reason that someone gets hurt?"

Nick grimaced, grabbing his head with both hands. "No."

Grissom squeezed his bicep. "Let me help you."

The young man latched on to both his shoulders, channeling hurt, anger, helplessness. He'd leave a set of bruises from the grip, but Grissom bore it out.

"You can't---"

"Let me try."

"I... I can't... God... I can't hear, Gris!"

He hesitated, but witnessing this type of naked pain... to see the fissure spill out in the open... Grissom wrapped an arm around shaking shoulders. Nick buried his head into his chest, hands loosening their death grip as they slid to grasp his jacket's lapels.

Grissom hesitated only briefly, his hand finally dropping to the back of the younger man's head to lightly pat his closely shaven head. His other arm hugged Nick, trying to lend some reassurance and to keep the trembling man from tumbling to the floor.

"I do understand, Nick... I'm... I'm so sorry." He didn't know if the words were lost in the breakdown or if they were swallowed in white noise. "I understand, Nicky. You're not alone."

"It was supposed to go away."

Grissom's own eyes closed at those hauntingly familiar words as things finally began to make sense, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

"You don't have to wage your battles by yourself."

Embarrassed, Nick pulled his face away to hurriedly swipe at his eyes. "It just got worse... I-I was afraid... and the bombings were still happenin'... you guys were so tired..."

"You caught him. You did good." It was like soothing a child, but the man before him was anything other than that. He was one of the bravest people he'd ever known.

"Feel like an idiot."

"Don't." He wanted to add more...wanted to tell him, but the words had trouble leaving his lips.

Nick was suddenly bent over further with a groan. His hands took a hold of his head, fingers digging into his shorn scalp. "It's never been this bad before."

Grissom felt helpless as Nick gasped and grabbed for the couch cushions, knuckles whitening as he tried to stay upright and not vomit.

"You're going to the hospital, now." He got up, hand patting down his pockets in search of the keys to his car.

His CSI was in too much misery to put up much of a fight and he didn't want to wait on an ambulance. He wrestled with Nick's arm and, with all his might, tried to haul him up. "Help me out here, Nicky."

The ill man tried- he wavered and fought to stand as the supervisor draped an arm around his shoulder. It was a heavy burden even with the weight loss and Grissom struggled to navigate them towards the door as Nick staggered, trying valiantly to stay vertical.

"Helps not far, I promise. Let's just get you to the car."

Grissom wasn't going to let Nick Stokes down. Not this time.


	23. Chapter 23

---------  
If he could have willed a hole to open up in the floor of the Desert Palms waiting area, a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon would have formed at his feet.

He wasn't sure which was worse. The way he felt or the fact that he had spilled his guts, heart, and sorry soul all over his boss. His Boss. Grissom. The Bug Man. The man who could look at a family of four burned to death, along with their puppy and visiting granny, and be more interested in the chemical characteristics of any accelerants present.

All right. That was a bit harsh. Even if he always had reckoned Grissom'd be more saddened by the death of a hill of frickin' fire ants than by the plight of one lowly human.

But he had to hand it to the guy. Nick had completely lost it on him, crying into his jacket like a lost school kid, and his boss hadn't pulled back; hell, he'd barely stiffened on contact.

Nope, Grissom had come through like a trouper, and Nick couldn't be worse off because of it.

If only the man had just dropped him off at his door, waved goodnight with a 'hope you feel better' platitude. Hell, if only the man hadn't shown at all. Why the hell did he come??

Because you screwed up, Stokes, that's why. You blew it. You coulda just sucked it up and kept it hidden till it was over, but no. You had to go and crash. Your. Frickin'. Truck.

The thought of his trusty old truck wrapped around the pole, airbag like a sadly deflated party balloon filling the driver's compartment, made him groan out loud.

Which was pretty much par for the course for while the white noise had ebbed some, allowing him muffled access to sound, his vertigo hadn't eased up one bit. And he'd been moaning and groaning, at first he thought quietly, but between his hearing returning and the looks some of his fellow waiting room victims were shooting him… he figured out pretty quickly that he wasn't as subtle as he'd hoped.

Grissom hadn't said one word since their arrival (it felt like hours but barely one of them had passed by on the clock over the sign-in desk), and Nick wasn't sure if it was because his boss thought his hearing was still out, or out of disgust or anger or take your pick of any of the emotions that could be brewing under that calm façade. The supervisor just sat, apparently comfortably, in the decidedly _un_comfortable plastic chair next to his, occasionally checking his watch against the one on the wall and plucking at non-existent lint on his pant leg.

Truthfully, though, it was just fine with him. Had Grissom suddenly turned and decided to talk… well, the thought scared him almost as much as whatever was going on his head.

And that scared the shit outa him.

Whatever it was had escalated to the point where he was able to recognize that he would never have been able to play it off much longer. What had Grissom said, back at the house? _What if someone gets hurt because of you?_

The man was right. Not surprising, but it was a conclusion Nick hadn't been able to reach on his own with his head buried so deeply in the sand. Or up his ass. Take your pick.

What if he hadn't heard the warning Michael had shouted at the George? Sure, he could be righteously angry that it was that night that sent him down this hellish path, but regardless of the cause, he knew that out in the field, he needed his head together, and his hearing up to par.

Otherwise he was just a liability. And he could get someone hurt or worse.

And what if his hearing loss was irreversible? What the hell would he do? He was 33 years old- a little old to be learning to sign or read lips.

He could already picture the awkward visits from his well-meaning friends. Catherine patting his arm and smiling a lot at him. Sara's smiles would be tight and forced. Greg would stand around scuffing the floor with the toe of his shoe and apologizing mutely but frequently.

Jim would probably tell him - make that, write him, a story about a buddy of his that the same thing happened to and Grissom would give him reading material on coping mechanisms. And his partner… well, he'd have no one to use his sarcasm on, no one to banter with. No one to piss and moan with. Even basketball would be ruined for them- no smack talk, no shouting 'mine!'

And his family. Oh, god, his mom would frickin' cry buckets. Probably try to get him to come home to the ranch. The nieces and nephews all gathering to stare at him as his siblings explained that Uncle Nick needs his rest and won't be able to play hide n seek or kick the can any more. Leave him in peace.

Cisco would, of course, blame his foolish decision to leave Texas in the first place- after all, Dallas has a fine crime lab. What's wrong with sticking close to home? So what if it's not number _two_ in the country? What's Vegas got? Desert, tourists, and whorehouses, that's what!

He balled his hands into fists against his head, wishing oddly that he had hair he could knit his fingers into and pull until it tore out in clumps.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was stupid to let the pity parade continue. It was the twenty-first century for cripe's sakes. There had to be something they could do for him. But what if it wasn't just his hearing?

The vertigo, the headaches… what if it was an aneurysm? Or worse? What if it wasn't the head trauma at all? What if -

Grissom stirred next to him and he jerked his head up, too fast, and he swallowed quickly and repeatedly, holding back the rising tide of his stomach contents, meager amount left that there was.

His boss gave him a brief look, then pulled his pager free from his belt and checked the ID.

"It's Warrick," his boss said as he showed the readout to him.

Nick started shaking his head, even though it caused him even more distress.

"You can't tell him, Gris. Don't –"

The supervisor held up a placating hand. "He's going to find out eventually anyways, Nick."

Yeah. His days of hiding his malady had been completely blown outa the water tonight.

"Alright. But tell him not to come. I know he's gonna wanna, but, please- just tell him to stay put. You're still his supervisor for one more night, right?" he asked with a wan smile.

Grissom returned his smile with one of his own. "I'll tell him."

Nick went back to burying his head in his hands, staring at a spot on the yellowed tile floor, hoping that his focus might slow the rest of the waiting area from whirling around him.

A few minutes later Grissom returned from outside where he'd placed the call.

"He's coming. Sorry."

Nick just groaned and rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Mr. Stokes?"

Nick looked up to see a man in powder blue scrubs holding a wheelchair.

"I don't need that," he said as he rose to his feet. Then lurched like a drunkard on a Lost Weekend.

"Alright, maybe I do," he muttered as he dropped into it. The aide barely waited for his ass to hit the seat before backing the chair up into a three-point turn and whisking him into the back. After parking him in a curtained off cubicle he waited for Nick to get up, a strong hand helping him up onto the waiting gurney bed where he sat, legs swinging, hands grasped around the edge holding himself barely upright as his head hung to his chest.

He mumbled a thanks to the back of the man who was already leaving with the wheelchair.

A fiftyish woman with a bad perm in a pink scrub top came in on quiet rubber-soled shoes a few minutes later, taking a quick BP and temperature, jotting the info down on a chart, then pulling up a stool to sit at his feet. She asked a bunch of insurance-type questions, and made the typical allergy inquiries.

When she got to previous medical history he sighed and chuckled mournfully. "You want the whole shebang or just the high notes?"

She cocked her head, taking in what appeared to be a relatively healthy looking younger man. "I guess whatever you think relevant to what's going on with you for now. The doctor can figure out what's pertinent during the exam."

He nodded. "Had a severe concussion a couple months back." He lifted his hand to gesture at the pink scar on his temple. "Maybe ten or twelve weeks ago, I guess. Can't imagine anything else that happened affecting me like this now."

She made a non-committal noise of acknowledgment, pen scribbling his info on the chart, then made as if to leave before pausing.

"You do something to your chest?" At his surprised look she jerked her chin at him. "You're holding your arm wrapped around yourself."

He gawked down at himself, surprised to find his hand gripping his 'bad side'. It felt so normal to do it, and it scared him a bit how quickly he seemed to be reverting back to his old, unwell self. But he had to admit, between the overwhelming dizziness and the buzz in his head, he hadn't really noticed the ache in his ribs. Until pointed out to him.

He looked at her dumbly. "Yeah, dunno if it was the seatbelt, or throwin' up, but... yeah."

She nodded and scribbled more down on the chart. Then stood up to leave, reached over to a pile on a side table and dropped a hospital gown in his lap. "Here. Put this on. You can keep your skivvies on for now," she tossed over her shoulder as she left the area.

"Small favors," he muttered as he started unbuttoning his shirt.

* * *

After another ten or fifteen minutes of contemplating the various scary looking medical equipment surrounding him a doctor pulled the curtain back and snagged the same stool the nurse had sat in earlier.

At least he assumed it was a doctor. The man was tall, taller even than his partner, in stonewashed denim jeans and a lighter colored denim shirt held together at the neck by a garish Mickey Mouse tie. His skin was tanned nut brown and heavily wrinkled, his hair iron gray and held behind his head in a tight braid that ended at the tops of the jeans. The only thing that gave the impression this guy was a physician was a small nametag affixed to the shirt pocket that read JF Cooper MD and the stethoscope slung around his neck.

Cooper lowered his lanky body onto the stool, his long legs bending like a scarecrow's, pointy kneecaps practically jutting through the denim.

"I'm Dr. Cooper and you are…" and through small silver John Lennon spectacles he consulted the clipboard in his hand. "Nicholas Stokes."

"Nick. Yeah."

Cooper made another quick review of the writing on the chart then hugged the clipboard to his bony sternum and stared over it at him. "Severe vertigo, intermittent hearing loss, headaches, and chest pain." His eyes dropped down to the brace on Nick's leg. "And apparently a badly messed up knee. You're in rough shape, Mr. Stokes."

Nick coughed out a laugh and rubbed at his side. "Is that your professional opinion?"

The doctor smiled broadly showing yellowed dentures. "Nope. Says so here is all," he chuckled, patting the chart in his arms. "How's about we start with the easy stuff first? Let's take a look at those ribs."

From the stool he was almost the same height as Nick was sitting on the gurney and he wheeled himself over to a spot right in front of his patient. He lowered the gown to Nick's lap and whistled as he caught the scar on his side. "That's a beaut," he said admiringly, and then his almost freakishly long fingers probed the area around the old incision.

The flesh around it and ribcage under had retained some lingering tenderness since the accident, but now Nick flinched and his fingers tightened around the thin sheet beneath him.

Cooper glanced up at his face but continued to push and prod, playing his ribs like piano keys. Done, he retied the gown around Nick's neck then pushed off with his heels, wheeling himself back a few feet to pick up the chart and jot a few notes.

He played with the pen in his hand while he appeared enrapt by the few words he'd put down, then turned back around on his spinny stool and placed his large hands on his bony knees.

"The ribs in the area of your surgery probably had time to just finish knittin' together. The seatbelt mighta cracked some of 'em in the new bone. We'll get 'em x-rayed just to be on the safe side."

Nick just nodded. He could handle a few x-rays. "Been there, had those," he said, mustering up a game smile.

The dingy grin was back. "I'll bet you have!" He slapped his thighs then held out his hands. "So, how's about we see what's goin' on upstairs? Can you go ahead and stand up for me?"

Nick took in a deep breath and lowered himself off the gurney, the floor cold under his feet, his knee protesting a little as weight was put back on it. He wavered a bit, holding his own for just a few seconds before a hand launched out to grab the gurney as a wave of nausea washed over him.

The doctor was up like a shot, launching himself off the stool to wrap his spindly fingers around Nick's arm and help him back up onto the gurney. His long arm reached over to the counter as he guessed correctly what was coming next, sticking an emesis basin under Nick's face as he vomited.

"Wow," the doctor commented as he snatched up some paper napkins and handed them over when Nick was done. "That is a wicked case of labryinthitis. Don't think I've ever seen a case this bad before."

Nick gaped at him, his head spinning like he'd just stumbled back to his dorm room from a frat party after downing a fifth of Yukon Jack. The man seemed to be getting a kick out of this.  
He just wiped at his mouth and glared at the doctor.

Cooper just kept shaking his head in amazement. "How much of that was the bad knee?"

"Not much. Knee's not the problem, my head is," Nick muttered roughly through an irritated throat. He looked at the bile that coated the bottom of the kidney dish and his stomach lurched again. He yanked it away from his face and held it, not knowing what to do with the offensive object.

Cooper gestured for him to hand it over, glancing in clinically at the contents. "You been doin' this long?"

"Third time tonight," he replied, remembering the mess he'd left at the side of the road and then again at the house with Grissom there… yeah, best not to go there right now.

The doc nodded. "Well, let's get an IV in you then."

Nick's eyes widened in protest. "I- I don't need an IV. I'm just dizzy is all."

"You're probably dehydrated considering what _didn't _come up. And I'm gonna give you some Compazine for the vomiting. The other delivery system for the anti-emetic ain't by mouth, if ya catch my drift, so I figured we'd kill two birds with one stone," he said with a raised eyebrow and a yellowed grin.

Nick just sighed and slumped on the bed. "Which hand ya want?" he asked tiredly.

* * *

A half hour later he had been poked, prodded, stuck, and tethered to an IV and all it had done for him was made him feel worse.

The buzzing in his head was louder and while he figured he should tell the doctor, he wasn't sure the physician would really care, taken as he was with telling Nick his entire life's story as he completed his exam.

The doctor had an otoscope shoved in his ear, prattling on about the ranch he grew up on in Wyoming, where he went to med school, and his first two wives, when he _thought _he heard the man say something about being a veterinarian.

He pulled back and away from the doctor, eyes widening in shock. "You - you're a vet? Like for animals?"

The doctor smiled and said, "I said I was a vet. Started out with the animals at the ranch but I was treatin' so many of the ranch hands and sheepherders, I went back to med school for my MD." He narrowed his eyes appraisingly. "Hearin's goin' out on ya again, ain't it." He pushed back the stool to skate over to grab up the chart and scribble on it.

He then opened a drawer, pulling out a pad of paper and a second pen, wheeling back to hand it to Nick. "If it gets real bad, we can use this for the rest of the exam, okay?"

Nick just nodded, taking the pad and dropping it listlessly into his lap. The vertigo was getting worse, even sitting, and he gulped and closed his eyes.

He felt the vibration of the stool's wheels on the tile reverberate up through the metal gurney frame briefly. A minute later he felt a tug on his hand and opened his eyes to see Cooper injecting something into his IV port.

"Wha- what's that?" he gasped out.

Cooper started explaining what it was but the white noise and dizziness were escalating and it was all Nick could do to stay sitting upright on the gurney. He chanced lifting one hand from its death grip on the sheet and waved it at the doc in a _stop, stop,_ manner.

The doc nodded his understanding, picked up the pad and scribbled a single word on it, holding the results in front of his face. Diazepam.

"Valium? A tranquilizer? I'm not- I'm not hysterical- this isn't-"

The doctor grabbed up the pad and scrawled something more down, turning the pad once more so Nick could read it.

_Sedatives temp- relieve vertigo. Don't think you're hysterical._

Cooper turned the page and wrote some more stuff down, handing it over so Nick could read it as he rose from the stool. _I need you to lie back now. Let's just see if the Valium does the trick, ok?_

Next thing he knew he was being eased back against the gurney, the nurse from earlier appearing at an unheard call to lay a thin cotton blanket over his legs and pull up the metal side rail as Cooper pulled up the other.

The nurse started asking him a question but at silent instructions from the doctor she picked up the pad and scrawled on it, _there's a guy in chairs wants to come back, ok?_

Shit. Grissom. The prospect of dealing with his boss was daunting and in the condition he was in… he didn't exactly relish the idea of trading notes back and forth. But the sedative was taking effect and just enough of the edge was taken off to allow him to nod his head reluctantly.

She nodded back at him, pausing to drop a clean emesis basin next to him, then left with the doctor. He closed his eyes and tried to relax on the thin mattress, his fingers catching hold of the kidney dish to pull it just a bit closer. His stomach was still feeling like he'd done ten rounds on the Tilt-a Whirl at Six Flags. He knew because he'd done it as a teenager on a dare- and he'd puked up corn dogs and sugar waffles for an hour afterwards. And his ribs were still aching from the last bout of puking.

God… what was he gonna do about Grissom? He had to look like a 24-karat asshole, trying so foolishly to hide something so crucial to his job.

"_What if you're the reason that someone gets hurt?"_

He'd honestly thought that he was doing the right thing, but as it often seemed to do, it came back to bite him in the ass. He only hoped that his job wasn't at risk. Grissom hadn't seemed too pissed but then he was only catching every third word the man was saying and the whole thing was a blur of embarrassing emotion, waning adrenaline, and disabling dizziness.

The diazepam must have started working because he heard the metallic ringing of the curtain being pulled back and he opened his eyes expecting to see his boss, look of disappointment plastered on his stern visage. It was only then that he realized Grissom might not be the only one pissed off at him.

"Hey, Rick."

"Nick…"

His partner's face had always been easy to read: quick to smile that broad white grin or eyes hardening to emerald ice with rage.

Its look now was like his dad's when he'd climbed up onto the roof to retrieve a wayward Frisbee at age eight. He'd fallen, only had the wind knocked out of him, but his sisters had screamed like he was dying and Cisco had come charging out of the house, dropping to his knees next to him, concern for his son quickly turning to anger as he realized Nick was pretty much okay but what in Hell's name ever possessed him to do pull such a stupid stunt?

"I'm fine, Rick," he said, sitting up straighter on the bed, knowing his statement was ruined by the hospital equipment and his probably sorry looking appearance.

The taller man pulled up the very popular stool and dropped onto it next to the bed. "What the hell's goin' on, bro?"

"Nothin'. Just had a little accident. Doc said he's gonna take some x-rays- I'll be outa here in a few hours."

"Drop the act, Nick. Stop bullshittin' me. What the fuck is goin' on with you? You've been off for a while now- don't try an' tell me otherwise."

"What … what did Grissom tell you?"

"Said you had an accident. Fed me the same bullshit line you're givin' me. When I pressed him on it he told me to ask _you_ about it. So here I am, bro. And I want it straight."

Fixed by twin green laser beams Nick squirmed, his free hand rising to rub at his scalp.

"Just had a dizzy spell 's all. Wrapped my truck around a light pole, but I'm fine. I swear. Truck is worse off. I just hope it's repair-"

"Knock it off! Jesus, Nick! You left the party without a word to anyone, only to have a car accident three miles from the Lab. Just… just stop it, Nick. Please."

"How'd you even know I was here?" Nick deflected.

"I looked for you at the party. Wanted to know if you were up for grabbing some beers at the Four Ninety after shift. Wendy said she'd talked to you, that you were actin' funny. She asked you a question that you gave a really bizarre answer to, then got up abruptly and practically ran outa the room. I tried calling you but you never answered, so I tried Grissom. Figured maybe he had you off on a job or something. That's when he told me he was here- with you. So here's my question, bro, since you seem eager to avoid the subject. How did Grissom know to be here?"

"Dunno. Guess the cop at the scene called him. I, uh… knew the uni who responded. Maybe he called Grissom outa professional courtesy."

"That makes no sense, man! Would you _listen_ to yourself? You're makin' no sense- talkin' in circles. If it was 'just an accident' as you said it was, ain't no reason for a uni to be calling anyone but a tow truck."

It was bad enough that he'd told Grissom what was going on- a decision made impetuously and one that he still seriously regretted. The man in front of him was his partner and best friend, but that old stubborn Texan streak was so deeply imbedded and he was so tired of being an object of concern. It just wasn't in his nature. But this battling with his bud was beating back the palliative effects of the Valium and he could feel the wool blanket descending once again as the room started to spin around him.

"Nick … … please …. … Grissom … … … …"

"No! Don't call Grissom," he gasped out as his hand wrapped around his ribcage.

"I'm not… … … … trippin'?… … … goin' on?… …Nick?…"

But Nick had his eyes squeezed shut, fumbling for the dish as he felt his stomach rising once again and he retched painfully, not even bile coming up, just dry heaves that ripped at his chest.

By the time he'd gotten his stomach back under control he was gasping for air, the pain in his ribs hitching each breath he tried. He collapsed back against the pillow and opened tired bleary eyes to see that Warrick had found the pad of paper and was staring at it, dumbfounded.

His partner's eyes met his as he turned the pad around to show Nick the writing. Then he picked up the pen and in the same neat, almost draftsman-like printing Nick had seen for the last ten years on every report they'd written together, his friend wrote, _You can't hear me, can you._

He felt something inside him break for the second time that night and wondered why he'd fought it for so long when he shoulda known his friends would never give up. Would never give up on him.

"No."

Warrick slumped his shoulders in relief and dismay. He reached out and wrapped his hand around Nick's wrist above where the IV once again punctured his best friend's flesh, squeezing it gently, then picking up the pen again.

_What does the doc really say?_

"Nothin' yet. Don't think he knows what's goin' on." His voice must have sounded as gravelly as it felt like it should be coming out of his acid-ravaged throat because Warrick got up and filled a plastic tumbler with water at the sink and handed it over to him.

He drank a small sip, then a bit more, but he'd learned that lesson already so he lowered the cup to his lap and let his head fall back again tiredly.

The two men sat in silence as Nick tried to bring his breathing and heart rate down and Warrick just stared at the pad in his hands.

A few minutes later the doctor returned and he watched as Warrick and the doctor talked, the doctor doing a lot of head shaking and Warrick planting his hands on his hips.

His partner finally scribbled on the paper, thrusting it in Nick's face while never averting his glare from the doctor. _Doc wants ok from you to talk to me._

Nick just nodded, letting the two men duke it out, too wiped and too tired of reading stupid notes to even care. He noticed though as he laid there that the white noise eased off a bit, moved off to the back of his head, letting some of his hearing return.

Cooper moved over and dispensed the contents of two syringes into his IV, then showed him the vials he'd used- more of the same meds he'd already gotten. He nodded his thanks and struggled for a comfortable position on the gurney. He just wanted to get his x-rays and get dressed and go home. Make an appointment to see his PCP in the morning, maybe get some tests scheduled.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Cooper. He was gratified to hear the doc's words reasonably clearly. "How's that working for ya?"

"Better, thanks. Ribs still hurt and I'm feelin' kinda sloppy, but yeah …"

The doctor's dingy dentures made another appearance in a wide grin. 'That's the Valium. 'Tween that and the Compazine, I imagine you'll be pretty rubbery for a while."

He sat back down on the stool as he continued talking, which was preferable to the tall man towering over him. "The sedative works to calm down activity in the inner ear. That white noise you hear is tinnitus. Tells me that the ossicles- the bones in your middle ear- aren't doin' their job properly. The signals get all wonkified and all your brain gets is static."

"I've had ear infections before, doc. Never affected me like this."

"Well, you don't have a temp, and I'll draw some blood to make sure, but I don't think it's an infection. Won't be sure what it is til a neurologist and an ENT get a look at ya. Meanwhile, we'll drop you off at x-ray before we take you upstairs."

Nick immediately bolted up as straight as two doses of Valium and lingering vertigo would allow him. "I'm not- - I'm not staying. I don't need to stay."

"Mr. Stokes, I'm sorry, but you're not in any condition to go home. I understand --"

"No! No, you don't. You don't - you can't. I can't …" His tongue was thick and his lips wouldn't work right and he couldn't get out the words he needed. He felt tears of frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes and he cursed the sedative weakening his ability to maintain his calm, loosening his inhibitions.

"Per your own admission this has been steadily worsening, Mr. Stokes. And we don't know what's causing it. It could be damage to the ossicles from the head trauma, or it could be something else. A clot, scar tissue. An aneurysm or a tumor pressing on your auditory nerve. With the Valium workin' as it is I'm betting on the ossicles bein' the culprit, but I can't in good conscience let you walk outa here. Even if you could. Which I highly doubt."

Nick swiped the back of his hand angrily over his eyes, shaking his head in useless denial. He heard his partner trying to reassure him, to convince him it would be in his best interests to let the doc admit him, but all he knew was that as hard as he'd strived, as much sweat and pain and frustration he'd gone through to come back from it all, here he was winding right back up in the same place. Flat on his back in a hospital bed.


	24. Chapter 24

He'd barely slept through the remaining hours of the night after his admission, nodding off under the heavy medication just to wake up repeatedly, groggy and disoriented.

Morning brought oatmeal and Sara. She sat in the chair, alternately chewing on her lip and furrowing her brow as he filled her in on what had been going on. What he'd been hiding.

"So, just so I have this straight, you let me stick a needle in you, but you didn't trust me enough to tell me."

"I - I didn't tell anyone, Sar. Had nothin' to do with trust and everything to do with me bein' a stubborn ass."

She quirked a smile and appeared to ponder that. "Well…there is that."

"Ha ha. 'Sides, you telling' me you tell me everything?"

She blushed and stammered out, "I … I would have told you… I mean, I'm sure I would have told you about something this important."

"C'mon, Sar. We both know that we can be ornery when it comes to our private lives. Hell, the Lab's like a frickin' high school sometimes. Everybody all up in each other's business. It's hard, havin' secrets, but we do our damnedest to keep 'em."

She nodded as they reached a silent mutual understanding. He, along with pretty much everyone else even remotely connected with the Lab knew the problems Sara had had, but he had respected her unwillingness to discuss them. Because he knew that if she had truly needed someone, there would have been a line of people waiting outside her door to do so. And he'd have been first in queue.

"You gonna eat that?" she asked, pointing at his breakfast.

"Nah," he said with a dismissive wave. "Why? You want it?"

"Just coming off a long shift," she said, reaching for the bowl of oatmeal and the accompanying bagel half.

"Have at it," he said with a laugh, a little late as she was already opening the cream cheese and slathering a generous portion on the bagel.

"Just in time," he muttered as an aide came by with a rolly cart. Sara snatched up the small cup of orange juice with a gap-toothed grin at the sullen worker. The hairnet-clad woman grunted then shrugged her shoulders, holding the tray out to offer the two soggy, forlorn bacon slices left on the plate.

"No, thanks. Vegan…but, thanks."

The aide just rolled her tired eyes and trundled back out of the room.

The two friends shared some small talk, mostly gossip left over from the party. Who danced with whom - so and so left with _her- can you believe it? _sort of stuff. Then a white coat clad woman pulled back the curtain and Sara made her good-byes, promising to stop by again later.

* * *

The doctor got down to business pretty fast, advising him that his meds would be stopped so as not to interfere with the test results. And the tests… she had a grocery list.

This was the neurologist's turn with him. He was x-rayed again, his inquiry as to why they didn't do his head when he was in for his ribs soundly ignored by the radiologist. He was then treated to a highly unpleasant MRI. The time in the clanking machine wasn't so bad but the dye injected into his femoral artery he _really _coulda done without.

They returned him to his room, the aide pushing the wheelchair pulling up short as he caught sight of Nick's newest visitor. Catherine rose from the chair to come over and hug him before he'd even gotten up. She tucked her hair behind an ear and stepped back, tossing the aide a pearly smile that he failed to notice since he'd obviously caught sight of her cleavage when she'd bent over.

Nick had to laugh- Catherine's cleavage had kinda ceased to be a treat but he knew the power it had over the common red-blooded male. But then, when he stood to get into the bed and the aide was still staring at the gorgeous blonde, he shook his head and limped over himself, drawing the covers up as he lowered his tired body against the pillows.

He let her mother over him for a few minutes, his patience worn thin by the testing and the tension of waiting for his problems to return. His meds were long out of his system and it left him feeling jittery and raw.

By the time Jim showed up and he re-told the same story he was getting real sick of telling, he could feel the dizziness returning. He knew what that signaled but thankfully, his friends accepted his yawn and the closure of his eyes against the vertigo as their cue to leave.

And as the way things always seem to go in hospitals, no sooner had he settled himself for a much needed nap, when another aide showed at his bedside, wheelchair waiting to haul him off to the next set of tests.

This time his torturer was an ENT, a small balding man with an almost funereal pale, morose expression permanently plastered on his face. He was handed off to an audiologist, a pleasant Hispanic woman who guided him through the next series of tests with patience and a maternal concern.

Thank God he'd missed lunch service because after two hours of having his head tilted various ways, sensors attached to his head and around his eye sockets, sounds clicking and beeping in each ear, and then had hot and cold water flushed into his ears, he was so dizzy he could barely keep his head on his neck. The audiologist was prepared with an emesis basin and cups of ice but there was little she could do about the pain that stabbed him in his side every time he retched.

He was misery personified by the time he was done, wheeled back to his room where the aide had to practically hold him upright for the few steps to his bed.

* * *

His next visitor was his partner. Nick was curled up in bed, eyes squinched shut as he gripped the sheets waiting for the room to stop spinning and he found it painfully ironic that during his first go around at the hospital the bombings had kept everyone away, barely able to stop in for ten minutes between double and third shifts. And now that he just wanted to find a hole to crawl into, he had visitors coming out of his ass.

Warrick sat down in the chair and pulled it up close, leaning over to talk quietly to him.

"Hey, bro. You're looking pretty rough."

"Not feeling so hot, Rick. They've got me so messed up, man. I feel worse than I ever did before."

"The docs telling ya anything yet?"

He snorted, then held his breath through another wave of nausea. "Don't think I've said two words to any of the docs. They've been puttin' me through the ringer though."

"They haven't said _anything_?" Warrick asked angrily. "What the--"

"Rick- I know. Trust me, I've been down this road. They just keep tellin' me they're runnin' tests to find out. Only just finished up an hour ago."

"What the hell good are tests if they only make ya feel worse?"

"Guess it's gotta get worse before it gets better." He buried his aching head deeper into the pillow. "Just wish the room would stop spinnin' so I could get some sleep," he muttered.

He opened his eyes and chewed pensively on his lip. "The tests were rough, man. Half the time they were askin' me questions I was blankin' out like before. What if… what if they can't figure it out, or what if it's… I mean… what the hell would I do, Rick?"

Warrick shook his head, anger flitting across his features. "Cross that bridge if we get to it, Nick. Like you said, they only just finished up the tests. Takes a while to grade 'em, right?"

"Ha. Yeah. Hope I pass 'em all."

"Humph. Picture that, bro. Like you ever failed a test in your life."

"I did." His partner raised a doubting eyebrow. "I did. High school French. Could never get a handle on it- kept mixing my Spanish into it. Drove Mrs. Beauchamp crazy."

He heard Warrick chuff out a laugh, and then the white noise returned blotting out the rest of his partner's words. Another, worse wave of vertigo seized him and he tightened his fingers, knuckles whitening, into the sheet beneath him.

When he next managed to open his eyes it was to find Warrick gone, a small slip of paper torn from his partner's field notebook sitting on the bedside table.

_Keep the faith, partner. We'll get you thru this too._

* * *

The night that followed his day of testing was the longest and worst he had spent, even compared to the initial hospitalization after the bombing.

The hearing loss never faded after his partner's visit and his room became a tomb; the silence deafening, the white noise taking over his entire world. And the vertigo worsened, calming only after the nurse had responded to his third ring to empty the basin that had become his new best friend. She had either taken pity on him or had tired of coming in so frequently because 3am brought him an IV dose of Compazine and finally a small amount of relief.

Seeing the beginning rays of morning dawning through the shades should have cheered him but the day waiting for him held little promise.

His head was still stuffed with cotton batting, forcing out all sound and his frustration reached its peak when the little balding ENT made an appearance at his bedside, folder wrapped possessively in his white coat clad arms against his chest. He never smiled, never asked if Nick could even hear him. Just his thin white lips flapping up and down, his facial expression never altering.

Nick just shook his head tiredly and curled into a tighter ball in the bed, hugging his aching chest. He looked up to see the ENT had raised a single eyebrow- quite the dramatic turn for the man- and he saw him sigh as he pulled out a piece of paper, scrawled something on it, scribbling the pen back over what he'd written several times, then handed it over.

The doctor's handwriting proved every stereotype and joke ever told. Small chicken scratch-like words took up the top inch only of the paper.

_Your head trauma damaged your (scratched out) middle ear bones and you need surgery to correct it. I will be performing the procedure- you may need a (scratched out) replacement. I have you scheduled for tomorrow morning. I will start you back on the (scratched out) (scratched out) medication so you should gain some relief until then. Any questions?_

He could only stare at the words. The doctor had ever so helpfully underlined the pertinent stuff. Surgery. More surgery.

The last time he'd been barely conscious and had been whisked into the OR so fast he had no real idea as to what was happening. Now he had the whole day and another night to think about it.

* * *

The sedative had been a Godsend, finally allowing his head to stop spinning and the white noise to settle back into a more comfortable background hum. Late morning brought him a roommate, a kindly older man he chatted with a bit until the man's family stopped by, filling the small area with laughter and conversation.

The Valium left him feeling fuzzy and drowsy and he pulled the blankets up, curling up on his side and closing his eyes, the commotion going on behind the fabric curtain oddly comforting after his night of silence. He dropped easily into sleep and awakened to the feeling of a presence near his bed. He assumed it was one of the normal aides or nurses that stopped by to clear up his uneaten food or check his IV and continued to lay there, trying to fall back asleep when he smelled something so… familiar… cocoa butter and antibacterial soap.

He rolled over and opened bleary eyes to see the face of his favorite nurse and savior.

"Violet?"

"Saw your name on the board and had to see you for myself. You go on back to sleep, now. I'll come back later."

"No. No, please." He sat up groggily, clearing his eyes hastily, grinning as he felt Violet plumping up the pillows for him.

"You know, if you missed me you coulda just called," she said with a soft smile. "Or maybe it was the food you missed."

"No! No, if _anything_ was missed it was you, Violet." He cleared his sleep-frogged throat and blinked several times, the sedative keeping him from waking fully.

"Mind me askin' what's goin' on with you, babe?"

"Guess after they got done puttin' me back together they missed a few parts," he said a rueful smile. "I uh, I've been havin' trouble with my hearing. Doc told me this morning I've gotta have surgery."

"Well, that's good, right? Them goin' back in to fix what they missed."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is. I just wish I knew more about what was gonna happen. The doc tried to explain but…"

"What's the surgery for?"

"Said I damaged my inner ear bones."

Violet nodded. "You knocked your head pretty good, babe. Makes sense some of 'em didn't come thru unscathed. They're well protected, tucked back in your skull like that, but a good enough whack can knock 'em outa joint. Don't even hafta be broken. Just disruptin' the chain can mess up the works real good."

"Yeah, messed up is what I am," he chuckled softly, rubbing his hand over the rough stubble on his jaw.

"Well then, I guess the doctor'll just need to go in and clean the mess up. You made it through worse than this, child," she said, laying a soft warm hand on his arm. "You'll make it through this, too."

* * *

He knocked lightly on the door, then made his way cautiously into the room. Nick was in the far bed at the window, sitting in a chair, head back eyes closed. The waning evening light revealed that his chest was wrapped once again in Ace bandages and he wore an open bathrobe over a pair of pajama bottoms.

Gil walked past the occupant of the first slot, a tiny, wizened elderly man, sound asleep and snoring. He'd just cleared the foot of the bed when the man let loose a snort it seemed impossible to have come from such a wisp of a man, smacked his lips a few times, then rolled over to resume his normal stentorian breathing.

When he looked back at Nick, the younger man was awake, rubbing his fists into his eyes.

"Oh, hey, Grissom."

"Nick. You up for some company?"

"Sure. I'd uh, offer you a seat but..."

"Not necessary. I just stopped by to bring you something I thought you might find of interest."

"Oh, yeah?" Nick straightened in his chair laying his hand on his side with a small wince.

"You did re-break them I see," he said jerking his chin at the bandages.

"Yeah. Yeah, I never do anything halfway; you know that, Gris," the younger man said with a laugh, then sucked in a regretful breath, fingers digging into his side.

"No. No, indeed you don't, Nick," he replied softly. _Thank God... _

He hefted the leather bag he carried off his shoulder onto the bed, unzipping it to pull free his laptop computer. A few keystrokes later he had the device booted up and running, his current desktop wallpaper a beautiful specimen of _Phoneutria nigrivente_. He handed the opened computer to Nick who accepted it almost warily, placing it on his lap and tearing his eyes away from staring at his boss to look down at the screen.

"Nice spider, Gris," Nick said dubiously.

"Brazilian Wanderer. I like it," he said simply. Then pointed at a folder icon on the desktop with the single word caption 'SURGERY'. "That's the one."

A double click on the small built-in mouse pad opened the folder to show a medical textbook's worth of information on surgery in the middle ear plus journal articles, personal accounts from patients who had undergone the procedure- even several sets of video footage of operations taking place.

"This is..." The younger man's voice was heavy with awe. "Grissom, this research – it must have taken a helluva lot of diggin' to get all this stuff. I only found out about the surgery this morning."

"You weren't the original recipient," he allowed but took no further. He knew he didn't have to. He could already see the wheels turning as Nick made a gracious attempt not to appear too curious, his eyes scanning the information in front of him, making the connection finally. After all, the man was an investigator.

"Your mom is deaf."

"Yes. Yes, she is."

"You look this stuff up for her?"

"No." He took off his glasses and breathed gently on a lens, pulling up his shirttail to rub slowly at it. "No, my mother's hearing loss occurred in a generation before they perfected the surgery. Otosclerosis- the stapes... the um, third bone, furthest into the middle ear, degenerates and can't transmit sound waves properly any more. When it goes out on you... your hearing... it's like the static in your head gets so loud it drowns out everything else."

He put his glasses back on in time to practically see the light bulb pop on over Nick's head and it made him smile sadly. "I was very fortunate that science and surgical techniques have progressed much further than in my mother's time."

"It, uh..." Nick cleared his throat and averted his eyes back to the laptop in front of him. "It sounds like the surgery worked out okay."

"Better than okay. It was a complete success." He sat down on the bed and folded his hands. "Do you have any questions about it?"

"No... I mean, not yet, but uh... I'll let you know. If that'd be okay."

"That would be fine, Nick."

"When'd you have it done?"

"Last May."

Nick cocked his head, obviously expecting to have heard a different answer. Then he nodded his head shortly in a _yeah, I got it _manner.

"Remember havin' a couple one-sided conversations with you." A smile curled slowly onto his face. "Your vacation. Shoulda known there was more to it."

"Why?"

"Cuz you don't take vacations."

"I do."

"Name the last vacation you took... for _real_."

"Last fall I visited the University of Tennessee's Forensic Anthropology Facility."

Nick snorted good-naturedly. "The Body Farm. A weekend of pokin' around at dead bodies is _not_ a vacation. Hell, it's just a typical day at the office for us."

The older man sighed. "Will be good to have a 'typical' day again. These last few months have been..." He stopped, realizing whom he was talking to.

The Texan chuckled out a "Yeah," then dropped his head tiredly onto the chair back. "They have at that." He lifted his head suddenly with a grin. "You gotta promise me you'll at least check out Graceland next time you go."

He laughed out a soft breath, amazed at how good it felt. How right it felt.

"I promise," he replied solemnly.

"Well, thank you very much," Nick replied in a dead-on Elvis impression, even managing to do the head and hip cock in his chair as he shot twin finger guns at his boss. "And thank you very much, Gris," he continued in a normal, serious voice, his hands dropping back into his lap.

"For what, Nick?"

"For this," he said waving at the computer. "For the other night. I had myself so turned around, I failed to recognize what I was doing. Denying my problem, hoping it would just go away. I mean, it was stupid! No denyin' _that_. And you were right... I coulda put you guys in jeopardy. Someone coulda gotten hurt and it woulda been my fault."

"Freud described denial as the ego's basest defense mechanism but felt that it served a genuine purpose. His daughter, Anna, classified denial as a mechanism of the _immature_ mind, because it conflicts with the ability to learn from and cope with reality." He chuckled darkly. "Talk about people in glass houses. Anna Freud was a depressive, obsessive anorexic and a compulsive masturbator. So I think she knew a little something about denial."

Nick grinned appreciatively. "Cleopatra..."

"Queen of Denial," Gil finished. "And I may know a little something about denial myself. Had a few 'it'll just go away' pep talks with myself before I decided on the surgery. And _I _knew what it was I was dealing with. Otosclerosis is an autosomally dominant inherited trait; just my mother having it was enough for me to assume I'd develop it eventually. And I still... well, let's just say I struggled with it. When it began to affect me professionally, it was the wakeup call I needed."

He smiled at Nick, surprised by how comfortable he was in discussing this. Of course, he had the advantage of time having passed.

"Your wakeup call was a bit more... traumatic. I'm very glad your injuries were limited."

"You and me both, boss," Nick said rubbing ruefully at his side. "Think I had enough trauma for one life. Hell, maybe two."

Gil just nodded and said, "Well, I should probably go. Shift starts in a few hours and you should probably get some rest."

"Yeah," Nick agreed with a grim smile. "Normally don't think I'd sleep too well the night before gettin' my head cut open, but the meds keep me pretty dopey." He raised his IV tethered hand in illustration.

"It's not too bad," Gil said as he stood from the bed. He raised a hand to rub behind his ear with a small smile. "Doesn't leave much of a scar. And at least you don't have to worry about the head shave."

Nick chuckled as he scrubbed his hand over his shorn scalp. "Was gettin' kinda long anyway. Crappy way to save a few bucks at the barber, though."

A sudden, almost painful sounding snort issued from the bed behind the curtain, followed by a grunt and some other less than savory noises.

Gil raised an eyebrow but Nick just laughed. "That's Mr. D'Angelo. He's a good old guy. Deviated septum- go figure. He's getting it fixed tomorrow."

Gil lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. "He seems rather…old… to be having it taken care of at this point."

Nick nodded and grinned ear to ear. "It's a fifty year anniversary present to his wife. Said it was worth it to make her happy."

Gil shook his head in admiration. "It never ceases to amaze me… the sacrifices people make for others." He wandered towards the door, stopping briefly to turn and say, "Take care. And good luck."

"Thanks, Grissom. Again. I mean it."

"I know you do, Nick. Good night."

As he left he nodded to himself, noting Nick had already started going through the folder on the laptop.


	25. Chapter 25

The gathering was slated for late afternoon so that whomever wanted to attend could do so before shift, or during a well-timed break in between duties. There had been some concern over the location chosen, the land behind the Lab, away from the streets. A little bit of rolling lawn, a few trees and the backs of neighboring businesses kept the area intimate. The decision had to be re-thought when the crowd swelled with members of the police department, those off duty or with properly timed lunch breaks.

The front rows of blue were marshaled by Alex Vartann, Jim Brass, and Sam Vega. That triumvirate's flanks were filled in by the beat cops involved in The George's crowd control; Officer Jamal Matthews, the large black man standing tall next to his older, more heavy set partner, Dobransky. People from the Mayor's office groomed and primped for photo opportunities mingled with the press, the Under Sheriff, and some of the City Council who were up for re-election.

Gil's dress shoes had not been broken in and the thin socks he wore provided little protection against the leather digging into his flesh. He shuffled around uncomfortably until Catherine's hand on his shoulder urged him still. He wasn't being antsy; he wanted to tell her, his feet just hurt, but said nothing.

He looked around the ceremony, hastily moved way to the back of the Lab, ironically enough to the same range where they conducted explosives tests. The high powers that be were ecstatic about the shift, but the guest of honor had been less than thrilled.

Of course this was a pageant show for more than one prance around the judges; better to get all the bang for one's buck. Several retirements were announced, promotions, other awards and the like given out, hands shaken all around.

"Sorry I'm late. Tox results came back on my case," Sara whispered in his ear as she looked around. "I don't think I fit in very well."

Gil smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the stage. "Neither does the man there."

Nick's name was announced and Warrick patted his pal's back as he got up from his seat closer to the ceremony and took a stage too grand and bright for the humble criminalist. Gil clapped quietly along with Sara, Greg, and Catherine. He watched in mild amusement as some of the other close knit group of colleagues strained their necks to watch the dog and pony show. Many of the techs had left their white coats back at the lab and some had even popped on a tie, Archie's Spiderman example close to stylish with his black shirt.

Gil didn't pay too much attention to the words of the Under Sheriff; the politician had a staff member on salary to write his speech and it wasn't like he even knew the young man he was handing out a medal to. Nick would probably put it in a box in his closet, or send it home to his insistent parents. No, Gil stood proudly, not at the mechanical words from the microphone, but for the gathered group.

Nick reminded him what it meant to be a real leader and in the man's selfless actions, he had learned a thing or two about fighting for what was right. It was time to do good by his people and that began with his formal letter written to every director and politically connected person of the Lab about reuniting his Team. Some things were worth risking for- there were indeed causes to champion because when it came to the end of the day, closed case files and typed up reports, the only thing left was the fusion within a finely tuned group.

"Nice speech," Catherine muttered unimpressed.

The cacophony of applause drowned out his humph. Gil didn't mingle for very long as Nick would have his hands full with all the politicking around him, much of the crowd had to get back to work and reporters launched themselves at the feeding frenzy as he tried to make his way back towards the lab. With the crowds teeming around him he was surprised to run into the man who had orchestrated the media frenzy.

"Conrad."

"Gil, how nice of you to be here."

He smiled graciously. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you did decline to offer a few words even though Stokes was under you at the time of the explosion."

"Nick knows exactly how I feel about things."

Ecklie waved to someone in the distance as he muttered, "Of course he does, and I'm sure you've told him several times."

Grissom cocked his head. "Was that what this was all about? Break us up and then act like the Good Guy?"

Ecklie's smile faltered. "You know how long it takes to get a person from the Lab a medal? One normally reserved for police officers, I might add."

"No, I don't."

The director looked around a moment. "It has to be recommended by someone to a review board and then approved by the Attorney General, which takes weeks if not months."

Gil raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Ecklie crossed his arms. "There's a huge void for civilian medals. The Citation for Bravery isn't some principal's certificate to hang on the wall."

"No, it's for an act of bravery beyond the call of duty, where the member's physical safety has been perilously exposed to danger in order to save the life of another, or to perform an extraordinary and heroic duty."

Ecklie grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I jump hoops where you won't."

"But you had to check your back. Dig into Nick's history to make sure you wouldn't be surprised, all the while letting things get stirred up and rumors run rampant. Nice of you to create such an intense environment."

"I couldn't risk having egg on my face."

"No, it would mess up that expensive suit of yours."

"Be thankful that the case wrapped up when it did. There was more than one head on the chopping block if it hadn't." Ecklie adjusted his tie and flattened out a tiny wrinkle.

"If it hadn't, there would have been one less head." Grissom smiled slyly.

"Oh, I dunno, I think everyone on the board would have lined up to have pinned several on his chest if things had gone the other way."

Grissom quirked one signature eyebrow. "Now don't sell yourself short on that one, Conrad, but I would like to thank the guy who submitted the original request to the review board."

Conrad Ecklie grinned. "You already did," then left the grave shift supervisor in silence.

* * *

He didn't wear a tie, just a nice button-up white shirt and a dark blazer. Ditched the boots and found a nice set of slacks that would be ruined if worn in the field. Before learning jeans would hold up more, enduring dust, dirt, grime and other foul things day to day, he used to wear nicer threads, with the thought of making a better impression. Oddly enough, this was a day set aside for just that; to influence and inspire. Such haughty words and they were used over and over again, and every second of the circus made it seem like they were talking about someone else.

"Will you stop doin' that."

He looked up at Warrick and smiled. "Doin' what?"

"You're thinking so hard it's making _my_ head hurt."

Nick laughed, "Sorry."

"You don't think you deserve those accolades?"

He opened his mouth, but the words got hung up and his buddy beat him to the punch anyways.

"If you'd just apply that bottomless supply of stubbornness to all that modesty, then maybe they would cancel each other out."

Nick watched Warrick cut with vigor into his food, dicing away at the meatloaf special, extra mashed potatoes slopped with white gravy. He didn't feel like debating things, knowing somehow all his nice neat explanations would be twisted around so badly he'd be left without a compass. Grissom sipped at his water with lemon, pushing around his vegetable medley before taking a bite out of his fried fish.

The waitress popped by, her eyes approving of Nick's clean plate, her wrinkled features drawing together before she chuckled. "You want another helping, sugar?"

He smiled sheepishly as both his companions looked over, their plates still half full. Nick floundered for a moment but their older server had a touch of grandmother syndrome.

"We have fresh apple pie. Could warm it up and throw on a couple of scoops of ice cream."

His eyes must have lit up, because Sandy pulled up her reading glasses that hung down on a chain, added the dessert to the bill, and, with press-on nails clicking on the plate, cleared his dishes and was gone before he could actually answer her.

"You're not stealing any of my biscuits." Warrick moved his bread to the other side of his plate.

Nick plastered on a fake pout. "Didn't eat lunch today."

Warrick snorted, "I'm sure you had a powerhouse breakfast. How many pancakes did you shovel down?"

He wouldn't answer, knowing the number was pretty high. He always stopped by his favorite place when he was out in the mornings.

"I'm sure it's easier to have a strong appetite when you regain the sense of taste," Grissom noted clinically.

His smile broadened at the older man. "You can say that again. Had the best damn barbeque the other night."

"Careful, bro. Might begin to add too many pounds."

Nick patted his stomach. "It'd take a whole hell of a lotta calories before that happens. Besides, I'm finally cleared to spend time at the gym."

"Ya sure that's a good idea... how many times have you cracked one bone or another?"

He glared at his partner while his boss just let them 'argue'. "Ribs are fine, head's fine. Hell, after the past few weeks of taking it easy, even the knee's not bad at all."

Warrick soaked up some of his juice with his biscuit, eyes twinkling, knowing how much Nick loved the homemade bread. "You just want to spend more time with that hottie gym instructor."

"Yeah, man, and her girlfriend." He laughed, "Though with Janet, I can just work on strengthening everything back up. Kill two birds with one stone."

"You talk to Catherine?"

Grissom perked up at the question as well and the younger man nodded. "Yeah. I come back next week. Same as before, lab duty than graduate to field work."

"You pass all your tests?"

Nick knew what Grissom meant: his auditory range of hearing performance after his surgery. "With flying colors."

His boss seemed quite pleased.

"Well, I'm glad you took a whole month off this time. Come back at top speed."

Nick wanted to add that he didn't have a choice in the matter, but would not spoil the mood. He knew that Catherine's orders had Grissom's blessing as well as backing from Ecklie. He shook his head at the mere thought of that man.

"Whatcha thinkin' about now?"

"Ecklie," he blurted out.

Both men were saved a response when Sandy came back with his pie, plated next to a generous helping of ice cream, a little whipped cream on top. "Awww, heaven. Thank you, ma'am."

She just winked at him and scowled at the remaining plates with food still leftover before moving on to the next booth. Nick dug his spoon in greedily and began to devour the sweet combo of cinnamon, tart fruit, and vanilla bean. Grissom was right: food was a thing to savor with new respect, but when it was this damn good, he just enjoyed the sugar rush.

"Conrad is more complex that most people realize."

"Dunno about that. I say he's still a weasel," Warrick retorted. He pushed his plate aside, finished. "Besides, he's the reason me and Nick are on Swing."

"No, I am," then Grissom held up his hands to silence any further argument.

Nick washed things down with his sweet tea. "Maybe he does have a heart after all... deep down inside," he amended.

"The man does what's best for him, and if that means cutting' budgets or pinnin' medals, then it's just a means to an end," Warrick growled.

Nick wiped his mouth with the end of a napkin. "I try to avoid politics, man."

"Yeah? Speaking of, where's your shiny new bling?"

"In the glove box."

Warrick gaped and Nick smiled as he pointed his finger at him. "Gotcha."

"Yeah, I guess with us on different shifts, you can't flirt with your favorite two DNA techs."

Nick rolled his eyes, a tiny bit grateful he wouldn't have to deal with that situation again anytime soon, though he found the attention a little flattering, if not awkward at times.

"The budget increased this quarter, so maybe we all learned a few lessons from Ecklie's choices of late."

Nick quirked an eyebrow much like his boss, but sat back with a full belly. Sandy was back like a whirlwind, cleaning up the table and dropping off the check. Warrick snatched it up, rising to his feet. "This time, it's on me," and walked off to pay.

He was left alone with his boss, this time the silence just between them and not from the entire world.

* * *

"All right with you guys if we call it a day? I don't wanna ruin myself for the race tomorrow."

"Benches… up ahead … quarter mile…" Nick gasped, his breath blasting out in silvery explosions of mist in the cool early morning air.

"Yeah, well there's a curb I've got my eye on right here," Janet said as she slowed her run down abruptly, shaking out her sore muscles. She stepped off the path and crossed the crusty brown grass over to where the curb followed the perimeter of the parking lot then bent her perfectly sculpted body in half, grabbing her ankles and bouncing lightly with her stretch.

"Yeah… curb… looks… comfy," he said breathlessly as he staggered over to the curb and dropped himself down wearily. He immediately stretched his left leg out in front of him, hands kneading at his knee.

He looked up as Matt dropped down next to him; the former Marine wasn't even breathing heavily, but his fingers mirrored Nick's as they dug at his knee joint where the prosthetic attached.

"How's that…working' out for ya?" Nick asked as he finally caught his wind, jerking his chin at the fancy new running foot.

"Good, good. Gives me way more stability and it's got better ankle rotation. We'll hafta see how it handles speed-wise tomorrow."

"Man, I can't believe I'm gonna miss the Turkey Trot." Nick sighed and leaned back on his hands, watching his breath plume out. The sky was just turning to salmon pink at the horizon, the air was crisp, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen.

"You could always watch with Michelle," Janet offered as she folded her willowy body easily down to flank Nick on his other side. French-tipped nails tugged at the laces of her running shoes, then she let the bow flop free as she sat back as well. "She keeps up with me in her Prius. And she always has the best snacks!"

"Snacks?" he chuckled.

"Yeah, snacks. You know- marathon fuel. 'Course Michelle is more of the 'wears sweats only to watch TV' kinda gal, and her snacks aren't exactly completely healthy but… long as it has chocolate and salt in some combination, I'm a happy camper."

"Chocolate and salt? For a marathon?" Nick asked dubiously.

"Hell, yeah. Salt combats hyponatremia. Lose too much sodium from sweating or even drinking too much water and you're looking at some serious puking at the least. Tremors, seizures - seen my share of 'em. Chocolate's just a really tasty carb. Keeps the glycogen up. No chocolate and around mile 17 I'm hittin' the Wall like nobody's business."

He glanced over at Matt to see if he was buying it but the sphinx just shrugged.

"Well, hell, Janet. You say chocolate and salt, I believe you. Would never doubt your knowledge of what makes a body tick. Peanut M&Ms do the trick?"

"Now you're talkin'," she said with a laugh. "Chocolate covered pretzels and Reese's cups do in a pinch. C'mon! Ride with Michelle. It'll be fun. The four of us can head out afterwards for the world's biggest brunch. In fact, I say we treat ourselves- check out the brunch buffet at the Wynn or Mandalay Bay."

"Janet," he laughed as he shook his head. "It's a good thing you work out so much, cuz I have never known a girl who could put it away like you can."

"You can burn 100 calories a mile in a marathon," Matt spoke up, sounding weirdly like Grissom when offering a piece of pertinent trivia.

"He's right, Nick. So? Shall I tell Michelle to expect company?"

He considered it a moment. Watching the race from the sidelines was gonna break his heart.

"There's always next year, Nick," Janet said as she read his mind. "In fact, you keep at it like you have been and the Bunny Hop might be yours for the taking next April. It's a half-marathon- it'd be perfect for you to start out on."

He nodded sharply. "Tell Michelle to put on her fanciest sweats, Janet. I'll be there to root you guys on."

He dropped his head back and took in the steadily brightening sky, breathing deeply of the cool fresh air.

"Seems only fair I return the favor."

* * *

Authors' notes:

We aren't big on the A/N within the fic, so please humor us as we offer our thanks and thoughts.

Kristen: I'm not sure where to begin. This was an amazing project and I'm really in awe at having such a wonderful writing partner in Beth. The fact that we can read each other's minds tends to help, as, of course, does having the same taste in fic. She's everything you'd want in a co-author: open minded and willing to trade ideas back and forth at any given moment. Thanks, woman. You are the best and I swear we will do this again, when once again the proper plot bunny bites us.

Not everyone is into long recovery fics, but it's our cup of tea and we just held nothing back. As someone said, _write what you can't find out there!_ This was something totally different for us and we're so happy that so many people came along for this ride. It was a most rewarding and sometimes grueling experience. I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

I want to thank our few loyal readers. Writing for enjoyment is a goal, but to receive great feedback is the only reward an author could hope for. It's our tip and motivation sometimes.

Special thanks go to Amy who aided us in so many ways with our medical research. This was a heavy fic to deal with and we had so many prerequisites and many _what if _scenarios. To have someone so willing to help mold our needs and answer questions in detail and with such happiness is more than anyone could expect. Thank you for your expertise and research.

Beth: Still can't believe it's over. Coming off the high of writing this fic is gonna make for a slow and painful withdrawal. Kristen is absolutely right. My one peeve with so many fics (and canon) is the wonderful buildup, the drama, the pain we put our characters through, only to have the story end, often with a two weeks later he left the hospital. What a great, fertile area to explore! And while, admittedly, the detailed examination of his recovery might not suit all, I for one was definitely writing what I looked for. What I CRAVED.

What can I say, K? In all things Nick, you complete me. I urge you to nurse your li'l plot bunny- feed it lots of cookies and carrots so it can grow strong and happy. I am already chompin' at the bit to bring some more glorious angsty goodness into the life of our favorite CSI. And I truly love writing with you.

I, too, wish to thank Amy for her research and support. What started as the teensiest widdle bunny was fed copious amounts of medical research to make him grow up to become the fic he is today. We couldn't be prouder! And Amy is his honorary godmother! Thank you, again.

And our readers! Ah, I hope you guys know what a joy it brings to see those words of support, encouragement, and advice. They really are the fuel that feeds the bunnies.

I'm sure K and I will write together again, and we hope to see you back here with us! We'll leave a light on fer ya.

Take care and Happy Holidays,

Kristen and Beth


End file.
